


A Conflict of Interest

by vulcanhighblood



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, BOXES, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool being Deadpool, Deadpool is clueless, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Identity Porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pancakes, Peter is a nerd, Peter is poor, Slow Burn, Spiderpool - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility, idk if deadpool dying counts as 'major character death' if he doesnt stay dead, non-graphic noncon mention, sugar daddy wade (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanhighblood/pseuds/vulcanhighblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool doesn't like being photographed. Peter needs to eat. This is what we in the industry like to call "a conflict of interest”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unlucky Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to photograph Deadpool for the Daily Bugle. It doesn't end well.

Peter crouched stiffly on the fire escape, adjusting his grip on his camera carefully. It was freezing outside, a light drizzle just this side of snow soaking through his outer layer. His hands were so numb and stiff with cold he couldn't even bend his fingers properly. He supposed he should feel grateful; after all, his powers meant that he could ensure a tight grip on his camera, although his winter gloves were too thick to be sure, so his bare hands were exposed to the elements. He just couldn't run the risk of dropping his most valuable possession. He'd lived on bread and peanut butter for nearly a year just to afford the camera, he damn well wasn't going to fumble it and watch it fall three stories to shatter into a thousand pieces. It may not have been professional grade, but between the camera and a bootleg version of Photoshop on his aging laptop, Peter managed to produce semi-professional shots, which in turn made him almost enough money to keep the heat on.

Central heating was a luxury, really, and Peter, what with his “three-ish hours a night” sleep schedule and “NYC parkour sessions,” needed to eat a _lot more_ than he needed heating. So Peter usually just wore as many clothes as he could and slept in a sleeping bag on his bed. He wished he could get a new mattress - he'd been using the same one since high school, but Aunt May wasn't made of money and neither was he. Thank  _god_ he'd managed to get a full-ride scholarship, and his classmates had yet to suspect the real reason he always formed “study groups” only to ‘forget’ his textbooks and borrow someone else's. He was lucky he was a speed-reader with a borderline eidetic memory or he'd never be able to keep up. Trying to stay on top of school while maintaining an alter-ego _and_ paying the rent for his rundown shack of an apartment was going to kill him before he reached thirty.

Peters shifted slightly, grimacing at the way water trickled down into the inner layers of his clothes. He was going to be _so hungry_ after this, but he only had ten dollars left to last him the rest of the month. He contemplated visiting Aunt May this weekend-- she would feed him, and he'd at least get one square meal that week. But he hated going to see her with an ulterior motive. It felt...dirty, somehow. He never wanted to treat Aunt May like a means to an end, so he tried to visit only when he genuinely missed her company (which was pretty much all the time) and had no other, ulterior reason (he almost always had one). Plus he was _busy._ He was trying to live a triple life, and it patently sucked.

He was distracted from his inner monologue by a flash of red - aha, maybe he _would_ be getting his freelance fee tomorrow after all. Of course it would probably be only a _fraction_ of what he was promised, but anything was better than nothing, he supposed. Peter lifted the camera, peering through the viewfinder with a scowl. He wasn't real keen on the whole ‘walk into danger’ deal without the security of his suit. He scoffed at that, mentally. A spandex suit that barely supported his junk, _secure_? But there was something about the anonymity, the boyish charm that came so easily behind the mask, a confidence that became so difficult to project as just Peter. Probably years of keeping his head down to avoid the teasing and bullying. No one bullied Spider-Man. At least not with cruel taunts about clothes that didn't fit, shoes with holes, and corrective lenses held together with duct tape and a prayer. And besides, Spider-Man could take it. Peter couldn’t. Shaking off his melancholy mood (the end of the month was always a bad time for Peter), he tried to spot his target. Jameson was up in arms about mutants and mutates in general this month, Peter supposed he should be glad J. Jonah’s ire wasn't limited to Spider-Man expressly, but at least he knew he could get pictures of Spider-Man. Trying to catch anyone else on candid camera was a real challenge.

There. Another flash, a glint of something - steel, maybe. Peter suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with his target and everything to do with the fact that he was _freezing._ His legs were starting to cramp now, and he hadn't so much as squeezed the shutter button. Damn, he didn't want to be here, but great as his aversion to the cold was, he had an even greater aversion to a slow death by starvation. “Just,” Peter muttered under his breath, “Hold still for like  _two seconds_ , _god_ , can you do that?” The spandex-clad figure couldn't hear him, probably. But Peter was mostly trying to distract himself from the cold anyway. Peter lost sight of the red suit as the (surprisingly agile for someone so heavily muscled) mercenary bounded out of view. “Shit,” Peter hissed, slowly panning the area with his camera. Nothing. He hadn't even gotten off a single shot. “Shiiiit,” Peter said again, already mentally trying to stretch his ten dollars. How much did peanut butter cost? Were hot dogs a better bet? He still had some bread, he probably didn't need to buy more just yet, did he? Peter shivered again, but this time it ended with a tell-tale prickle that crept down his neck. A gentle warning from his spider-sense that he was entering dangerous territory. Peter risked a glance up from his viewfinder. What could-

“Hey there,” a red mask with black circles around the eyes (“ _l_ _ike a panda, but spandex,”_ Peter’s subconscious helpfully supplied) dropped into view from what seemed like _nowhere_ . The white eyes of the mask were crinkled slightly, and the tone sounded good-natured, but there was a hint of something dark and not-to-be-trifled-with in the voice that had Peter’s spider-sense buzzing with urgency. He scrambled back, away from his target, trying to appear calm. The steady stream of “Shitshitshitshit _shit_ ” pouring from his mouth sort of ruined that plan before it even got off the ground.

Deadpool dropped to the fire escape in front of him in a crouch, every inch the dangerous mercenary he was reputed to be. Peter was beginning to seriously regret _everything_. Usually when J. Jonah badmouthed an individual with superhuman abilities, Peter just tuned him out. He was beginning to regret that for the first time in his (about to be tragically short?) life. What had Jameson said? Menace, blah blah blah cold-blooded killer, blah blah public enemy, blah blah blah a danger to himself and others… looking at the infamous ‘Deadpool’ now, Peter was inclined more than ever to believe the “cold-blooded killer” part, though he still firmly believed J. Jonah himself was the true menace in these parts. He’d had a few run-ins with Deadpool before, but that had always been in the suit, and somehow, being _Peter_ while interacting with Deadpool felt very different from being _Spider-Man_ while interacting with Deadpool.

“Here's the thing,” Deadpool began casually, arms resting on his knees, hands spread to show he wasn't holding a weapon. The gesture would have meant a lot more to Peter if every other part of the spandex-clad man didn't seem to be packing something pointy or explosive. “I know I'm sexy, I _do_ own a mirror. But I'm camera shy,” he indicated Peter’s camera with a flick of his wrist, “and I signed an exclusive contract with my modeling agency.”

For a moment, Peter was speechless.  Then Deadpool grabbed his camera. “No!” Peter latched onto the camera, clutching it to his chest, but he _couldn't_ use his full strength and he didn't want to break his only steady source of income with the full force of his grip. “No, wait, please,” Peter was scrabbling at the camera, knuckles barely bending because his hands were _so damn cold_ , he _needed_ this paycheck, he hadn't eaten since breakfast, “you can't-”  Deadpool wrested the camera out of Peter’s grasp, dangling it over the edge of the fire escape. Peter froze. “Oh god,” his voice came out in a frantic whisper, “please don't, please please please, I _need_ -”

“Now hold on, hot stuff,” Deadpool said, voice deathly calm. “I need a few answers before I decide whether or not to give this back.”

Peter sat back, feeling a chill curling down his spine. It wasn't because of the cold. “What do you want to know?” Peter asked weakly, wanting nothing more than to _get away_ like his spider-sense was screaming at him to do, but he _couldn't,_ not without his camera.  

“Who sent you?” Deadpool asked, voice low. “It can't be anyone too major, you're a lousy tail.”

“Who sent me?” Peter repeated, feeling baffled.

Deadpool swung the camera by its strap, holding it by a finger tip.  “Who,” the camera swung a bit higher,”sent,” it nearly struck the edge of the fire escape, “you?” Deadpool repeated in a sing-song tone. A beat passed, Peter unable to keep his eyes off the camera, a rushing sound in his ears as he watched it swing.

Then it slipped,  and Peter lunged for the camera on instinct. Suddenly he found himself pinned against the rough brick wall of the building, a massive forearm cutting off most of his air, a dagger just a hair’s breadth away from nicking his carotid artery. Peter hadn't even seen him _move_. He heard the sound of plastic shattering upon impact with the ground below, and he slumped, all the fight gone out of him.

“I'm not gonna ask again,” the mercenary began, a growl in his tone before he paused, surprise coloring his tone when he spoke next. “Holy shitballs, how young are they recruiting now?” Deadpool exclaimed, pushing his face right into Peter’s. “You can't be more than, what, twelve?”

Peter didn't answer, his whole world shattered like his camera, lying some three stories below them. He looked up, though, when he felt the blade against his throat dig in ever-so-slightly.

“You know, most people in your situation would start talking,” Deadpool noted, a hint of admiration in his tone.

“I don't have anything to say to you,” Peter said after a moment’s pause.

Deadpool’s white mask-eyes narrowed. “No? I think you do,” the knife pressed ever so slightly against Peter’s throat. “Let's start with _who. do. you. fucking. work for.”_ The dark, dangerous tone was back, and Deadpool still hadn't pulled away from Peter’s face.

Some part of Peter still retained a self-preservation instinct, so he decided to answer once the blade started digging in deeper.  “The Daily Bugle,” Peter said quickly, trying to hold perfectly still, “And look, I _would've_ asked for permission to use your photo if I had been able to find you sooner, but Mister Jameson needs those photos by _tomorrow_ and I hadn't been able to find you all week-”

“Whoa, hey now, hold up there baby boy,” Deadpool pulled back, raising the hand with the knife, palm facing forward, indicating Peter needed to back things up a bit. “The Daily Bugle?”

Peter nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“As in the newspaper,” Deadpool clarified.

Again, Peter nodded.

“As in paparazzi?” Deadpool asked, sounding incredulous.

“Mister Jameson has this thing for people with superhuman abilities,” Peter said by way of explanation. “He pays… decently… for photos. You fit the bill.”

Deadpool appeared to mull this over for a moment before the white eyes of his mask widened. “Shiiiiiiit, I dropped your camera!” he exclaimed, leaping off the fire escape and landing with a sickening crunch that sounded more like bone than camera, though Peter couldn't be sure. In either case, he winced.

“Shiiiit!” Deadpool’s voice floated up to him, “It's suuuuper busted.”

Peter fought back a wave of tears. He was cold, tired, and _starving_. And this cold blooded killer had just taken his only form of semi-reliable income and _literally_ shattered it into a million pieces. He cradled his head in his hands, trying to keep it together. He would get through this, somehow. _Yeah, maybe if I don't eat for the next two months,_ Peter thought dejectedly. He was already a month behind on rent, and now he had to somehow afford a new camera too?

“Hey,” Deadpool was back, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You ok? I didn't get you, did I?” he asked suddenly, grabbing Peter’s hands and yanking them away from his face before taking Peter's jaw in one of his broad gloved hands and turning it to the side, inspecting Peter’s neck. “Nope,” Deadpool declared a moment later. “Fuck me, your skin is like porcelain,” he commented as he released Peter’s face, dropping several pieces of now-useless plastic between the two of them. “Here's what’s left of your camera,” Deadpool said somewhat apologetically. Peter stared at the camera with a mixture of shock and dismay.

“Hey, um, for future reference,” Deadpool patted his suit pockets like he was looking for something, “If you call first we can set up some sort of photoshoot, that’s probably easier…” He pulled out the waistband of his pants looked down, and sighed. “I don’t have any paper on me,” he said, “do you think you can remember my number if I just tell it to you?”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Peter said around the tightness in his throat. _I will_ **_not_ ** _cry in front of the gun-for-hire, I will_ **_not_ ** _cry in front of the…_ He shook his head. “I, uh, that’s my only camera.”

“So buy a new one,” Deadpool said, failing to see the problem.

“Oh yeah, right,” Peter said, verging on hysteria. “That’s totally a thing I can do.”

“Yeah, it is!” Deadpool agreed enthusiastically. “Okay, well, anyway, my number is…” he trailed off, tilting his head as he eyed Peter with a mixture of confusion and concern. “Something bothering you, baby boy?”

“Just… cold,” Peter said, fighting back a shiver. “It’s kind of raining. And freezing.” It's not like he could tell Deadpool the  _real_ reason he was upset.

Deadpool seemed to notice the rain for the first time. “Oh yeah,” he said, “guess it is a bit nippy.”

Peter just wanted to get off this fire escape and forget this day had ever happened. Apparently Deadpool had other ideas.  “Look, I feel bad about the whole ‘break the paparazzi’s camera’ thing,” Deadpool said. “Let me buy you some tacos.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Tacos!” Deadpool clutched at his chest suddenly. “Don’t tell me you don’t like Mexican food!”

“What? No, I love Mexican food,” Peter said quickly, “although I’m partial to fajitas, myself,” he added as an aside, “It’s just…” he checked his wristwatch, “it’s almost six AM and I haven’t slept yet tonight.”

Deadpool shrugged. “Me neither. Call it breakfast!”

“I have my first class at eight,” Peter said, “I have to get back across town to…” He stopped then, wondering what was wrong with him. What was he doing? He’d almost told Deadpool where he went to school! He really needed sleep. He’d been about to head home and catch a few z’s after his nightly patrol when he’d spotted the merc and decided to follow him. His first mistake of the day, Peter decided. He’d stuffed his gloves and mask into his backpack and pulled out his camera (his second mistake). The backpack was now just as soaking wet as the rest of him. His camera… Peter felt the energy sap out of him as he saw the ruined equipment lying at his feet. This was the worst day _ever_.

“So, we’ll reschedule,” Deadpool said brightly. “Dinner tonight?”

“Oh my god,” Peter said faintly. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Nah,” Deadpool said casually. “Unless you _want_ it to be a date,” he added in a smarmy tone.

“Yeah, I don’t really have time for a relationship right now.” Peter quipped, “Besides, aren’t you like, fifty?”

“Fif-” Deadpool choked. “Fifffff-” he clutched at his chest, “how old do you think I am?”

“Well you said I looked twelve, so I think it’s only fair that I get to exaggerate too,” Peter answered, part of him wondering _what he was doing_ antagonizing someone like Deadpool. He was going to blame it on the sleep deprivation. And the cold. And the fact that he was feeling kind of lightheaded.

“You _do_ look twelve, baby boy. Are you even _legal_? Should I even be allowed to ask you out?” Deadpool demanded, crossing his arms over his very broad chest.

Not that Peter was staring at his chest. Nope. Not at all. “I’m almost nineteen,” he said, feeling miffed. _Why do people always think I’m younger than I am? ...probably because I look like a slight breeze could knock me over,_ he decided.

“Oh, great, almost nineteen, that definitely doesn’t make me a cradle-robber,” Deadpool said with a hint of sarcasm.

“So if you’re not fifty,” Peter began, ignoring the wheezing noise Deadpool made at the word ‘fifty’, “Then how old are you? Since apparently this whole age thing matters so much to you.”

“I am _barely_ over thirty,” Deadpool said, sounding affronted.

“Does that mean forty? I bet it means forty,” Peter said through chattering teeth. _Damn_ it was getting cold. He couldn’t even feel his hands anymore. He was going to have a terrible time walking back home - he hoped he would have enough time to get changed before classes. His legs were stiff and cramped too, he’d been crouched like this for at least forty-five minutes now, and the cold had essentially locked his muscles into place at this point.

“I am thirty-five and three quarters,” Deadpool told Peter.

“Really? Quarters? What are you, twelve?” Peter smirked. “Oh wait, that’s me, I forgot.”

“There is nothing wrong with counting your age in quarters,” Deadpool protested, pushing himself to his feet. “I don’t have to stay here and be insulted. I’ll be on my merry way.” He jumped onto the rail of the fire escape, glancing back over his shoulder to address Peter. “Sorry again about the camera, baby boy.” With that, he slipped from the edge of the fire escape, landing with a grunt. He was gone before Peter managed to uncurl himself from the corner.

Sighing, Peter carefully worked his way down the fire escape, not sure if he could risk changing back into his costume with Deadpool possibly lurking about. He didn’t really feel much on his spider-sense, but then, Deadpool usually didn’t register until he got close to Peter. After all, his killing intent wasn’t really directed at Peter so much as it was just a part the enigma that was Deadpool.

Peter walked the three miles to his apartment in the pouring rain, peeled off his soaking wet clothes, hanging them around his room and praying they wouldn’t mold since his place was pretty damp already. He managed to locate some clean, dry clothes and pulled them on, snagging his only rain jacket and pulling it on before jogging to class, trying to ignore the angry noises his stomach was making at him. He could do this. He would figure out some other way to pay the rent and purchase food. He still had old pictures of Spider-Man on his computer he could sell…

He would make this work. He had to.

He had no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS. SO. I finally got to see Deadpool in theaters here in Japan on June 1, and of COURSE I loved it and of COURSE it spurred me to read Spideypool fic, which NATURALLY led to me needing to write my own spideypool fic. So. Here it is. Enjoy.  
> Also this is my first spideypool fic so if anyone (mostly Wade since he's the character I'm less familiar with) is OOC I apologize for that.  
> Thanks for reading!


	2. An Ill-Fated Taco Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Wade Wilson promises you a taco dinner, he means to deliver. He doesn't joke about things as serious as tacos.
> 
> NOW WITH ART~!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Content warning-- suicidal ideation/self-harm, take care of yourself and please don't read
> 
> A/N deux:  
>  ** _White Box_  
>  **Yellow Box****

Wade Wilson was about halfway back to his place before he realized he hadn’t even gotten the little guy’s name. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to get him tacos if I don’t even know his name?” Wade immediately began pacing, ignoring the strange looks he got from the occupants of the apartment building across from the roof where he was currently pacing. He began to go over the interaction he'd had with the kid in his head. He needed to assess exactly how much he knew about the adorable teenage paparazzi. He knew the kid liked fajitas, that was _something_ , anyway.

**_It’s not like he even_** **wants** ** _us to buy him tacos,_** White snorted. **_He couldn’t wait to get away from us, he was all hunched up and defensive from the get-go. He would probably be very happy never seeing us again._**

**Please, he was definitely into us,** Yellow shot back.

**_Oh really, was that before or_** ** _after_** **_we smashed his camera?_** White was not having any of Yellow’s shit today.

**That wasn’t our fault!** Yellow squawked. **If he’d cooperated, we never would have dropped it!**

“Okay guys, you are being really distracting right now,” Deadpool told the boxes, who, _of course_ , ignored him completely in favor of squabbling with each other.  Wade wracked his poor brain for more details. The kid had brown hair and big brown eyes. He had looked somewhat pale, although admittedly that could have been the intimidation factor. He’d also been kind of blue, but that was probably due to the cold. He had been shivering. At the time, Deadpool had assumed it was just his intimidating presence, though he supposed being cold also made a person shiver. And for whatever reason the kid hadn’t seemed all that intimidated by Deadpool’s presence. Intriguing.

The kid was almost nineteen and had class at eight AM. So. High School or College? Also, Deadpool remembered with a snap of his fingers, the kid was _paparazzi_. He worked for the Daily Bugle! That probably narrowed things down a bit, although not as much as he would have liked. Oh well. The Daily Bugle probably didn’t employ _that_ many teenage photographers… Deadpool headed for his apartment, determined to look up this brown-haired photographer kid and deliver him some tacos. Like, an entire sackful of tacos. That would be  _so fun_. He would be like… Mexican Santa! And it wasn't even Christmas!

Wade loped from rooftop to rooftop, alternating between belting out Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” and “Feliz Navidad” all the way back to his place. He was feeling pretty enthusiastic, so he sang in the loudest, most tone-deaf voice he could muster. Sometimes dogs barked in response to his yowling -- Wade liked to think they were singing along.

Back at his place, Wade sat down at his computer and got to work. About thirty minutes later, he was beginning to regret thinking that this would be easy. Apparently, the Daily Bugle _did_ employ that many teenage photographers. Or rather, photographers in general. Because most of their photographers were freelance, they rarely had more than a name, no bio, no picture, _nothing_. Wade was stuck googling name after name. He’d started by looking them up alphabetically but that got _boring_ , so he’d started picking photographer names at random. He figured it was a start, and way more fun to google names based on interest level. He finally found the kid.

“Peter Parker,” Deadpool rolled the name around in his mouth, getting a feel for it. Then he noticed Petey’s usual subject matter and he let out an undignified squawk. “Holy shit!”

**Oh my god this kid not only knows Spider-Man, he also takes excellent pictures of that luscious ass.** Yellow was practically vibrating with excitement, which was especially impressive considering he was an incorporeal voice in Wade Wilson’s head. **Think he could introduce us?**

**_I can see it now,_ ** White grumbled **_Hey Spidey, I'd like you to meet the guy who broke the camera I use to take pictures of your gorgeous bod._ ** White snorted. **_I see that introduction going over reeeeal well._ **

“Why you gotta be like that?” Deadpool demanded irritably. “This is like...fate!”

**_Fated to be forever despised, maybe._ ** White was not having it.

**Maybe he'll give us pictures of Spidey for us to look at during 'me time'!** Yellow suggested excitedly. **We should buy Peter a nice camera so he can take rrrreaaally high-definition shots for us...**

**_That's a_ ** **_great_ ** **_idea! Because a man in his mid thirties complimenting your appearance, buying you food and giving you gifts when you're not even nineteen years old yet isn't creepy in the_ ** **_slightest_** **,** White responded cuttingly.  ** _Then go on to ask him to take compromising photos of a superhero for you._**

“That does sound a bit overbearing,” Wade admitted. “But then again, that's my style, don't you think?”

**_I think your style is self-sabotage,_ ** White answered dryly. **_In which case, definitely do the creepy thing. I mean you've already ventured into stalker territory at this point. Why not take it one step further?_ **

**Yeah! It's perfect!** Yellow chirped, completely ignoring White’s sarcasm.

Wade realized he'd been absently stroking the image of Spidey’s perfect little butt for the last five minutes and had to consciously make himself stop stroking his computer screen. He thought of something then. “I wonder if Petey already _has_ otherpictures of Spidey?” he wondered aloud, feeling excitement flush through him.  That would be _great_. “I wonder if he would sell me prints,” Deadpool mused, eyeing his tragically-bare-of-Spidey-butt walls. Most of the pictures on the internet were blurry, it was really amazing how Peter seemed to be able to take such excellent shots of Spidey.

**_Well there's only one way to find out whether or not he has other photos of Spider-Man,_ ** White said, apparently resigned to the fact that they would be stalking Peter Paparazzi.

“Then it's decided!” Deadpool said confidently. “Now I just gotta figure out where he lives…”

**_This is not going to end well,_ ** White predicted.

* * *

Wade didn't have much trouble getting into the kid’s apartment. Peter left his window unlocked, and it was only the fifth story of his apartment building. He was practically _begging_ for someone -like Deadpool- to drop in uninvited. Now sure, _most_ people used doors, but Wade enjoyed the thrill that accompanied an unconventional means of entering a given establishment. His favorite method usually involved explosions, but he'd limited himself to the window this time. He poked around Peter’s apartment, noting the wet clothes from their early-morning encounter scattered around the small studio. He was frankly appalled at the lack of food in the kid’s fridge. He'd been hoping for a snack, but settled for a couple (twelve) of the tacos he'd brought for dinner, which he’d scattered across the coffee table upon entry. Peter had no real kitchen to speak of, just a hot plate, mini-fridge, toaster oven and aging microwave. The rest of the counter boasted two mugs, three plates, a bowl, three forks and two spoons. Deadpool surmised Peter wasn't used to having company over. White started grumbling about how that was a _sign_ and they shouldn't be here, while Yellow argued that it must mean Peter was lonely and would appreciate the company.

After taking a few laps around the studio, trying unsuccessfully to get the boxes to shut up, he finally settled down on the lumpy loveseat (the only other piece of furniture in the studio besides the coffee table and bed) and settled down to wait. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long before he heard a key rattle in the lock and Parker opened the door to his apartment.

“Welcome home, sunshine!” Deadpool crowed.

Peter screamed and slammed the door. The key turned in the lock again. Deadpool frowned. He hadn't expected _that_ reaction. Was Petey running away? Why? Wade brought tacos! No one ran away from thirty (well, eighteen, now) tacos!  He moved to the door, about to unlock it and pursue the paparazzi (it did bolt from the inside, after all, so he wasn’t sure why Petey had bothered to re-lock the door) when he heard something outside. With a frown, Wade pressed his ear up to the door, straining to listen.

“ _Shit, shit, shit,_ ” Peter was saying. A steady pitter-patter of light footsteps indicated that the kid was pacing outside his door. “ _You- damn it all - you made him mad.”_ Deadpool wondered who Peter was talking about. The footsteps moved to the right side of the door.

**_He’s talking about us,_ ** White told Deadpool.

**Aww, but we’re not** **_mad!_ ** **We wouldn’t bring tacos if we were mad, would we?** Yellow cooed.

**_Yeah, but Peter doesn’t know that,_ ** White argued.

“You guys, I’m trying to hear,” Deadpool whined, trying to ignore the noise in his head, focusing on what was happening on the other side of the door.

_“Damn Jameson and his obsession with superpowers,”_ Peter continued, unaware of the dialogue that was taking place mostly in Wade’s head. His footsteps crossed in front of the door, reaching the left side before turning and heading to the right again. “ _Okay Peter, think. You pissed him off. Now he’s probably going to kill you._ ” The footsteps slowed. “ _Wait._ ” Wade heard a slapping sound. Judging from where the sound originated, he assumed that Peter had just clapped an open palm to his own forehead. “ _If Deadpool wanted to kill me, I would already be dead_.”

**_He’s not wrong,_ ** white hummed.

“Shhh,” Deadpool warned the box, still straining to hear.

“ _So if he’s not here to kill me…_ ” Peter was musing aloud, “ _Why the hell is he in my apartment?_ ”

**_It’s a fair question,_** White noted. **_I told you this was a bad idea._**

**You thought it was a good idea two minutes ago,** Yellow argued.

**_Did not._ **

**Did too!**

**_Not._ **

**Too!**

Deadpool rapped on his head, hard. “Hello? Guys? Not helping,” he warned them. He was distracted, so the sound of a key turning in the lock didn’t register until it was too late, and the door slammed into the side of his face without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’. Deadpool fell to the ground in an inelegant heap of arms and legs. Peter stumbled inside a moment later, instantly spouting apologies and _extending a hand_ to help Deadpool up.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know you were standing there,” Peter explained, “I mean, I didn’t know you were even in this place at all until, like, a minute ago, but I thought you would still be over there,” he pointed at the loveseat Deadpool had been perched on earlier.

Deadpool stared at the proffered hand like it might bite him. Was this kid _for real?_ Didn’t he know that nobody touched him? Deadpool was suddenly agonizingly aware of the fact that he hadn’t washed this suit in three days. His gloves alone were coated with gunshot residue, blood, and probably other unsavory materials. This kid was just standing there, hand outstretched, not concerned in the least with where the gloves had been in the last three days. He was so…

**Adorable!** Yellow supplied helpfully.

**_More like_ _naive_** **,** White shot back.

“Nah,” Deadpool answered, “I was thinking ‘genuine’.”

Peter cocked his head, confused. “Pardon?” he asked, hand still outstretched to help Deadpool to his feet.

Wade ignored the hand and sprang to his feet, landing like a cat, appearing relaxed but with a current of tension running through the lines of his form. “Never mind,” Deadpool said quickly, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh...kay…” Peter answered slowly, still confused but apparently not willing to push it. Wade looked him over, and realized that his impression of six AM Peter wasn’t all that different from six PM Peter. He was tall and lanky, with arms and legs that seemed to sprout out of him like branches on a tree. His figure looked like it had a lot of potential, but he didn’t have much on him but skin and bone. Peter’s eyes were wide and expressive despite being hidden behind a thick pair of glasses. His golden-brown hair was long enough that it brushed at his cheekbones on either side of his face. Elsewhere, his wiry hair stood on end and seemed to be pointing all directions at once. His face was nearly gaunt, his skin a pale pallor. Even as Wade watched,  the kid swayed in on his feet ever so slightly. That was enough to jolt Wade into action - he’d come here for a reason, after all!

“Whoa, whoa, baby boy, you should sit down,” Deadpool said, “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said stubbornly, but he sat down on the loveseat anyway. Deadpool stood by the other side awkwardly, not sure if he was welcome to sit on the other available cushion. The loveseat was pretty small, and with Deadpool’s considerable bulk, it would end up being something of a tight squeeze.

Peter was looking at the small mountain of tacos on his coffee table like he’d never seen mexican food before. “What is this?” he asked.

“Tacos,” Deadpool said brightly.

“I can see that. And smell that,” Peter said. “Why are they here?”

“I felt bad about breaking your camera,” Deadpool said. “I told you I’d buy you dinner. But you didn’t give me your number, so I figured we could eat in tonight.”

“...oh,” Peter said faintly. “I...see.”

He didn’t seem to ‘see’ at all, but Deadpool decided not to press the issue. “Anyway, I already ate a few while I was waiting,” Wade indicated the various discarded wrappers lying scattered around the room.

“I see,” Peter said again, nose wrinkling slightly. “Is there a reason why you didn’t use the trash can?”

“This place has a trash can?” Deadpool quipped. “I didn’t know people _did_ that whole ‘dispose of your waste’ thing. I usually just burn my place down once the cockroaches start moving the extended family out to the homestead.”

Peter blinked, hard. “Was that a joke?”

Deadpool wondered exactly how bad he smelled if Peter couldn’t tell that he was joking. Sure, he was a bit of a slob, but he wasn’t _that_ bad… was he?  

**_You probably smell like a sewer,_** White told him.

**Quick! Smell yourself!** Yellow shouted.

Deadpool ducked his nose under his armpit and sniffed. He coughed.

Peter’s mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure exactly how to go about doing so. “Let me get this straight,” he said, glancing at the merc for a moment before going back to staring at the food on his table. “...you broke into my apartment. To bring me _tacos_?”

“Of course, baby boy, why else?” Deadpool quickly schooled himself, trying to pretend he hadn’t just been not-so-surreptitiously checking to see if he smelled bad. Spoiler alert - he smelled like rotting flesh. Which, considering his skin was borderline necrotic, was not all that hard to believe after he’d gone around wearing the same suit for almost seventy-two hours.

“I don’t know,” Peter said, shrugging. “Sometimes people target me because I take pictures of Spider-Man,” he said. His eyes hadn’t left the pile of food.

“You can eat anytime, baby boy,” Deadpool told him. “I didn’t poison them,” he added.

“Yeah, I don’t think you would,” Peter said dismissively, still hesitating. “I mean, what’s the point of poisoning me if you could just snap my neck with your bare hands?”

Deadpool shrugged.

**_He makes a good point_** **,** White noted.

“Maybe if I wanted it to be slow and painful?” Deadpool suggested.

**_Are you_ ** **trying** **_to scare him? Is that what this is about?_ ** White sounded disgusted.

Peter shrugged. “I’m sure you could find more...creative ways… to make me suffer.” He still hadn’t taken a taco.

“Baby boy, is there a reason you’re not eating?” Deadpool demanded, beginning to feel irritated. He hadn’t come all this way carrying a giant sack from one of his favorite food trucks just to watch the kid _not eat the tacos_.

“I’m not in the habit of accepting charity,” Peter said.

“Char…” Deadpool cocked his head. “This is an _apology_ taco delivery. Why? Are you in need of charity?” Deadpool patted his suit, looking for his wallet. Unsurprisingly, it was not there.

**_It ruins the lines,_ ** White reminded him.

**Yeah! Makes our butt look misshapen,** Yellow chimed in.

**_Which would be a crying shame, because it’s really the only thing left of us that_ ** **isn’t** **_misshapen,_ ** White added.

Peter looked surprised. “N-no! No, definitely not in need of charity,” he chuckled unconvincingly, and Deadpool instantly decided he was going to be looking into the kid’s financials as soon as he left. What a terrible liar this kid was.

**_It would be adorable if it weren’t pathetic_** **,** White noted.

**I think it’s adorable** **_and_ ** **pathetic** ** _,_ ** Yellow chimed in, not one to be left out.

“I think it’s adorable and _hilarious_ ,” Deadpool told them.

Peter gave Deadpool a look, which was fair, since that comment did seem to come out of left field if you couldn’t hear the boxes.

“Eat the tacos!” Deadpool commanded. “Don’t make me threaten you,” he added, somewhat cheekily.

Peter rolled his eyes. Was he dismissing Deadpool’s idle threat? Wade wasn’t sure if he liked that. Was he dismissing the threat because he knew it was idle? Or because he didn’t realize just how dangerous Wade could be? Wade didn’t enjoy being dismissed, nor did he like being underestimated.

Peter picked up a taco and began unwrapping it. He glanced up at Deadpool, a twinkle of amusement in his gaze.

**_Oh he totally doesn’t respect us_** **,** White hissed, displeased with the whole affair.

Deadpool glanced at Peter, who raised an eyebrow in question. “Does he need to?” he asked.

**He also didn’t say thanks for the tacos** ** _,_ ** Yellow whined. **That’s not cool.**

“Wait, are you guys _trying_ to make me mad at him?” Deadpool demanded.

Peter, who had been about to take a bite of the taco, paused, pulling back and watching Deadpool carefully.

**_Oh great, now he thinks we’re crazy,_ ** White snarled. **_Look, you can see it on his face, he hates us._ **

“I mean, that’s fair,” Deadpool tried to defend Peter, “I mean I am pretty horrible.” He sniffed himself again. “And I stink,” he added, before realizing he’d said that _aloud_.

Peter, to his credit, did not appear more than slightly fazed by Deadpool talking to an otherwise empty room. After a moment of awkward silence, the brown-haired  photographer cleared his throat slightly. “Um,”  he indicated the love seat. “You can sit down if you want,” he offered.

Deadpool felt the room tilt slightly. “What?”

Peter scooted over as far as he could. “It’ll be a tight fit,” he said apologetically, “I don’t have any other seats.”

**I take back every mean thing I said** , Yellow said. **I love him. Let’s get gay-married.**

**_Oh my god you can’t just marry him, he’s barely legal!_ ** White chastised Yellow.

“Love can conquer any distance, even a tremendous age gap,” Deadpool argued as he gently lowered himself down onto the loveseat, trying his hardest to touch as little of the furniture and Peter as possible with his honestly filthy suit. He felt hyper-aware of everything in the room, especially the fact that his face itched and burned, he _smelled like shit,_  and Peter _still_ wasn’t eating.

**_Why didn’t you change clothes before you came?_ ** White demanded irritably. **_He’ll need to scrub the entire studio to rid it of your stench._ **

**He’s going to puke if we sit next to him for much longer** ** _,_ ** Yellow warned.

Deadpool was practically curled up on the edge of the loveseat, broad shoulders curled inward, knees pulled tight together, hands clasped on his lap, trying to take up as little space as possible. He risked a glance over at Peter. The photographer was looking at him strangely, taco still in his hand, otherwise untouched.

**Why isn’t he eating?** Yellow wailed in despair, **we went to all this trouble and he isn’t even eating!**

**_He isn’t eating because we smell so bad he can’t stand the thought of food_ ** **,** White declared with utmost certainty.

Wade winced. This had been a terrible idea.

**_Finally,_ ** White grumbled, **_he sees the light_ ** **.**

Peter was still ignoring his taco. “Deadpool,” he said softly, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Deadpool answered quickly. “Better than fine. Virile. Sexy, even.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Peter argued. “You seem… uncomfortable.”

“I am definitely not uncomfortable,” Wade said, despite the stiffness in his, well, everything. He wasn’t used to sitting all hunched up like this. He liked to sit all relaxed, reclined with his legs splayed out to give his nuts a lot of extra space to roam free. This was definitely not comfortable. He’d endured a lot worse, though, so in the grand scheme of things this was… fine.

“You _sound_ uncomfortable,” Peter challenged.

“I do not,” Deadpool replied.

Peter stood suddenly, laying the taco on the table and folding his arms. “You look _so awkward_ right now,” he told Deadpool. “Please, _relax_.”

“I _am_ relaxed,” Deadpool argued. “This is me, relaxed,” he gestured minutely with one hand, trying not to take up too much space. Why wouldn’t the kid just _eat his fucking tacos, goddammit._

Peter rolled his eyes _again_. “For heavens’ sake,” he said exasperatedly, and it sounded _so cute_ when he said it Deadpool almost squeed before he remembered he was trying to be polite and cut himself off. Peter stood there, staring at him for a long moment, his gaze hard. After a moment, he nodded firmly, as though coming to a decision. “I’m not going to eat unless you relax,” he said, and _when had this become a standoff? And why did that feel so much like coercion?_

Deadpool did _not_ like being coerced. He did not want to be pressured into doing something he didn’t want to do. He’d been put through enough in his life, he was damn well not going to be told what to _fucking do_ unless this was the bedroom and he was the sub and to be honest, he did not see that scenario arising anytime in the near future. Fuck Peter. Fuck Peter and his fucking hair and fucking gorgeous face and fucking amazing photos of Spider-Man. Peter Fucking Parker could fuck off with his threats and his coercion because Wade was _not about that noise_ , he did _not_ respond well to threats and coercion and he was _not_ going to stick around for more of it.

Almost before he realized what he was doing, Wade was scooping the tacos back into the bag, rolling it up and moving across the floor to the window.

Peter was standing in the middle of the room, looking shocked. “Deadpool?” he sounded genuinely concerned, “What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

Wade didn’t have the presence of mind to answer. He couldn’t be here right now, couldn’t be _used_ , wouldn’t _let_ himself be used, not again, not ever again.  A hand landed on his arm, and Peter was _right there_ and for a moment muscle memory took over and Wade’s hand twitched, he was _this close_ to putting a gun to the kid’s head but _no,_ Peter didn’t mean anything by the touch, he was _genuinely concerned_. He hadn’t meant to do this to Wade but that was a moot point now, Wade had to get out, had to _go_ , he couldn’t stay here, he needed to calm down but he couldn’t be here he had to leave he had to leave he had to-

Peter seemed to sense Wade’s need for space and stepped back, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.

Deadpool didn’t even acknowledge him, fleeing blindly into the night. He ended up dropping the bag of tacos in a dumpster somewhere, wandering aimlessly for awhile before he couldn’t take the boxes’ screaming anymore.

Wade put a bullet in the space between his eyes. The silence welcomed him, and he was at peace, at least for the moment. No voices, no pain…

He wished it would last longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww and it was going so well until the last four paragraphs! :(
> 
> ANYWAY. Wow, you guys, thanks so much for the positive response to the first chapter! I'm honestly MUCH more nervous about this chapter as I haven't read many deadpool comics (read as: "I've read like two"). I'm much more confident with fanfic! and movie!verse deadpool, but I'm doing my best, and hopefully I delivered.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who commented last time, and I hope this installment lives up to the hype!


	3. An Awkward Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man has seen a lot of terrible things in his time. He never expected this to be one of them.

Peter stood in his apartment, shell-shocked by what may have been the strangest encounter of his short life - and that was counting run-ins with characters like the Lizard and the Vulture. He never had company over, so the sight of the ‘merc with a mouth’ casually sprawled on his tiny couch had come as a shock to him.

He’d spent a few seconds trying to figure out why Deadpool was in his apartment before realizing that if he had seen Deadpool and wasn’t dead yet then probably the mercenary wasn’t interested in killing him. In that case, it would be easier to just ask the red-spandex-clad killer why he was in his apartment. On that note, Peter had proceeded to open his door right into Deadpool’s face. Fortunately, the mercenary didn’t seem to bothered by that, and proceeded to proudly show Peter that he’d brought him a pile of tacos.

Peter was _starving_ , but he was also really _really_ confused. And his curiosity won out. Why was Deadpool bringing him tacos? He wasn’t worried that Deadpool was trying to kill him - his spider-sense would have told him if that were the case. It seemed that Deadpool had intended to make good on his promise of tacos from that morning.

After a day full of classes and the added stress of looking for student jobs that allowed for irregular hours (spoiler alert - those were really hard to find), Peter barely remembered that Deadpool had said something about tacos. He’d been about to eat when he looked up and saw Deadpool standing by his lumpy mini-couch, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot and trying to look casual. Peter tried to imagine the kind of person who would look up a photographer’s address in order to make a personal taco delivery, and concluded that Deadpool was probably a very lonely person.

Aunt May had taught him to always be kind, and so even though Peter had a few misgivings (Deadpool was a gun-for-hire, after all), he offered the mercenary a seat next to him. Deadpool seemed uncomfortable, shoulders hunched, head drooping. He didn’t even look at the tacos he’d brought, and Peter imagined he _might_ be able to eat them all, but he felt awkward eating while Deadpool sat there looking like a kicked puppy.

The image of Deadpool splayed out on his couch thing and shouting “Welcome home, sunshine!” floated before his eyes. He’d seemed so excited and relaxed then, but now he was holding himself stiffly. Peter put the taco down. He just wanted Deadpool to _relax_ , his apartment wasn’t much to look at but it was _his_ and he was the _host,_ and he would make his guest comfortable, dammit! Even if the guest _had_ invited himself over, that wasn’t a reason to avoid ensuring that the red-suited gun-toting “menace” was comfortable in his home.

Peter wasn’t sure exactly when the atmosphere shifted, but before he realized what was going on, Deadpool was scooping the tacos back into the paper bag and heading for the _window_. First of all, who used _windows_ when there were perfectly good doors available? Secondly, _what had he done wrong?_ Peter tried to stop Deadpool, to try and talk things out, but the instant he touched Deadpool, his spider-sense shot through him like a bolt of lightning, _shrieking_ of imminent danger and Peter backed off quickly, raising his hands, prepared to make a quick break for it.

Fortunately, Deadpool didn’t seem interested in acknowledging Peter at all, throwing himself bodily out of the window. Peter found himself listening for the sound of a body hitting the ground, all the while hoping that Deadpool managed to catch something so he didn’t end up face-planting in the alley below. He couldn’t make out any sound of impact, so after about thirty seconds, Peter shut the window and moved back across his room in a daze.

“What the hell?” he addressed his empty apartment, much like Deadpool had been doing earlier.

That spurred a whole new line of thinking. What had been up with that? He hadn’t really realized that the merc talked to himself that much. Also it hadn’t been the average sort of “talking to yourself” that Peter sometimes indulged in. This had been more like overhearing one half of a phone call. Peter entertained the notion for a half-second that Deadpool had been using a bluetooth, but he knew better. There was a _lot_ going on in that red-and-black masked head of his.

Peter felt guilty then, realizing that he’d probably _seriously_ freaked Deadpool out. He still wasn’t sure _how_ , but somewhere between telling Deadpool to sit down and refusing to eat a taco he’d seriously bothered the mercenary.

Peter’s stomach growled, and he tried to ignore the alluring scent of tacos that still filled his apartment. He eyed the discarded wrappers that Deadpool had left scattered around his room (the trash can was _right there by the window_ , why couldn’t he just…?), and for a moment he felt tempted to gather them up in his arms and just _inhale the scent_. That urge passed rather quickly, mostly because Peter was slightly appalled at how _weird_ that would be. Besides. He had a loaf of bread in his mini-fridge, he could have dry toast for dinner.

Peter thought gratefully how lucky he’d been to meet Harry for an eleven thirty lunch that morning. As usual, Harry had insisted on paying. Peter had learned to stop protesting and just let his friend buy him food. Harry said he felt guilty for not having enough time to spend with Peter and would usually buy lunch as a way of “apologizing for not making time to hang out”. This sounded a bit suspect to Peter as he was at least as bad as Harry at ‘making time’ for things, but he didn’t want to make Harry insist, or worse, reveal the real reason he was buying Peter lunch.

Peter was not stupid, and he knew his friends worried about him. But he didn’t want them to explicitly _state it_ , and they knew him well enough to _know that_. So if Harry wanted to treat him to lunch sometimes, or if MJ wanted to buy Peter coffee and a cinnamon roll as “thanks” for “helping her study” (as if she needed _his_ help with her studies), Peter wasn’t going to give more than a token protest. It was easier to just live in that state of limbo where they all pretended it started and ended at a friendly gesture, that nobody was painfully aware of how Peter was never the one treating his friends.

Peter shoved two pieces of bread in the toaster oven and flopped down on his bed, the tantalizing smell of tacos gradually being overpowered by the smell of toasting bread. He still didn’t know what he was going to give to Jameson. He’d managed to retrieve his SD card, but he didn’t have anything _new_ . He still had some photos on his computer, but he’d taken his best ones to Jameson already. His toaster oven made a ‘ding’ to indicate it was done, and he rolled himself over with a groan, heating his hands over the toaster oven as he munched the toast. He’d learned to eat more slowly, since the faster he ate meant he’d be more likely to feel hungry when he finished. Sleeping when your stomach was trying to eat itself was _hell_ , and Peter tried to avoid that whenever possible.

He’d managed to get the homework due tomorrow done at the computer labs on campus, so at least now all he had to do was don his suit and go out for a patrol. Peter scowled at his bed. It looked _so inviting_. With a quick shake of his head, Peter shucked his jacket and pants, pulled the rest of his suit on as quick as he could, edging out the window that Deadpool had used only thirty minutes earlier.  

Spider-Man set off at a quick pace, spinning webs and enjoying the breeze whipping past his mask. He was hoping for a quiet night, but the sharp crack of a gunshot echoing into the night quickly put that pipe dream to rest. Spider-Man twisted midair, converting his forward motion into a twist that would have been the envy of Olympic gymnasts everywhere. He narrowly avoided the corner of an apartment building (thank you for that, superhuman reflexes) and threw out a hand to catch hold of the office building in front of him before he hit it head-on. Clinging to the wide glass windows, Spider-Man tried to determine exactly which direction the sound had come from. For not the first time, he wished his spider-sense would warn him when _other_ people were about to be hurt too, it would make tracking down evildoers _so much easier._

He didn't hear anything else, which was rarely a good sign. He scanned the streets below for a few seconds, willing his advanced senses to give him some much-needed assistance. He spotted the crumpled figure in the alley and winced. He saw now why it had taken him so long to spot them; the victim wasn't moving, not even breathing. That was never good.

Spider-Man leapt from his perch, throwing a quick web out to control his descent. He dropped to the ground a moment later.  The smell of blood and dumpster made a sickening combination, and it always gave him pause, no matter how many times he found himself facing bloody messes in dirty alleys. A quick moment to steel himself for whatever he would find, and Spider-Man walked around the dumpster, getting his first real look at the victim.

“Oh hell,” Spider-Man gasped, momentarily frozen, eyes raking over the prone form of Deadpool. The entire back of his head had been sprayed across the alley, courtesy of a bullet wound to the forehead. That alone was bad enough, but what really gave him pause was the handgun still tightly clutched in the mercenary’s hand.

There had only been one gunshot.

Spider-Man turned and walked away from the gruesome scene, his mind taking him down a path he would have preferred to avoid. That shot had been execution-style, and if Deadpool had a gun in his hand at the time of his death…?  It didn't make sense, the merc would have taken out whoever came after him long before that point.

There had only been one gunshot.

Spider-Man had seen his fair share of terrible things, but there was something particularly haunting about self-inflicted wounds. He talked down jumpers sometimes, other times he would web them before they hit the street. He'd thwarted several suicide by cop attempts, he'd seen people walk into the middle of traffic… No matter how many times he saw it, he still couldn't bring himself to understand the sheer hopelessness that would drive someone to that extreme. He knew crushing despair, he knew horrible circumstances, and yet he couldn't imagine the sort of emptiness, the self-hatred and pain that would drive someone to end their own life.  He certainly hadn't imagined that the crude, cheeky, irrepressible Deadpool would count himself among the faceless throng of those who couldn't see a future for themselves.

Spider-Man turned back around, taking in the scene once more. He wasn't sure how to proceed. He knew Deadpool had a healing factor to be reckoned with, he'd even witnessed it briefly on occasion. On the other hand, he had no idea if said healing factor extended to “missing half of your head”. He also wasn't sure if he should move the merc, this alley was gross and uncomfortable. Then again, if he _did_ regenerate, it could be scary to wake up in a different location than where you’d-- even in his head, it was hard for Spider-Man to think the words -- killed yourself.

That brought up yet another point - Spider-Man remembered several occasions where he'd been so badly injured that he'd lost consciousness. The worst part had been waking up - disoriented, in pain, and hauntingly alone. He wondered absently how many times Deadpool had woken up from terrible injuries, alone and in pain. Probably a lot more than Spider-Man, as Peter had been donning the mask for barely four years at this point.

Before he had the chance to talk himself out of it, Spider-Man scooped the red-spandex-suited mercenary and slung him over his shoulder, crawling up the building, reaching the roof in under a minute. He scanned the area, looking for a nicer location, finally spotting a nice little rooftop “garden” (comprised of some haphazardly placed shrubbery and an aging stone bench) about four buildings over. He webbed Deadpool to himself, shot a web that spanned the distance between the first two buildings and set out, muttering to himself about the weight of muscle mass as he twisted more dramatically, the weight on his back throwing off his instincts of how to reach his destination without becoming a bug on the windshield of New York City skyscrapers.

He made it to the garden without incident, and sat back to wait. After several minutes, Peter tired of watching a corpse possibly healing itself and possibly just decomposing. He dug into the small pouch he kept on him at all times, retrieving his cell phone and pulling up google docs.  The smartphone had been his graduation gift last year, and Peter had no idea how long Aunt May had saved up for it. It had a very limited amount of data that he tried to preserve for the times he really needed it (Google maps was a godsend in labyrinthine cities like NYC). The phone was on an “X many minutes/Gigs prepaid” card rather than a traditional plan,  but Google docs had an offline setting, so as long as he didn't need to do any more research, he could get started on that Physics paper due next week.

When Peter looked up from his autocorrect-typo riddled draft, he realized the back of Deadpool's head had almost totally regenerated. It was bald, and streaked with mottled red, angry skin that looked something like melted wax. Peter found himself wondering absently if that was what Deadpool always looked like under the mask, or if it was just a stage in the regeneration process.

With a gasp, Deadpool started breathing again. Peter guessed that meant his brain was regenerating. He checked the time- it had been about three hours. He had no idea how much longer he would have to wait. With a sigh, he tucked his cellphone away and watched the gun-for-hire as his chest expanded and collapsed with each breath. In, and out. In, and out. In…

* * *

Peter woke with a start, panic flaring as he realized he had no idea where he was. Someone was poking his shoulder, but he always slept _alone_ , he wasn’t even in his bed! He scrambled backwards, eyes flying open as he ran up against a stone bench, breath escaping in a whoosh. He scuttled backwards up onto the bench, realizing that he was in his suit, not even in his civilian clothes. _Where was he_? How had he gotten here? These thoughts raced through his head in the time it took to scramble up onto the back of the bench. He cast his gaze about wildly, looking for clues as to what was happening.

Deadpool was crouched near where Peter had been lying, head cocked to one side in curiosity. His index finger was still outstretched - obviously the origin of the shoulder-poking.  Everything came rushing back in that moment, the alley, the _one gunshot_ , brain matter mixing with back alley filth, Deadpool slowly regenerating… _He’d fallen asleep._ He had fallen asleep, leaving himself _and_ Deadpool easy targets, wide open and totally defenseless on a roof in the middle of New York City. He was surprised Deadpool wasn’t furious with him for that. He probably would’ve been safer lying in that alley…

Deadpool had scooted a little closer rising into a half-crouched position in order to reach eye-level with Peter, who was still precariously balanced on the back of the bench. “Yo, Spidey! Long time no see!” he said, all flippant and bubbly, and - _how could he sound so happy after he'd just_ \--?

Peter scrubbed at his face, still trying to wake himself up. He felt a flood of relief, realizing his mask was still firmly in place. But Deadpool had woken before him, he’d been poking Peter… He froze, sudden terror flooding his system. “You didn't look, did you?” he demanded, panic making his heart pound in his ears. _How could you have fallen asleep like that? You should know better!_

“Of course not, Spidey! We're friends!”

“We're _barely_ mutual acquaintances,” Spider-Man replied with a hint of irritation. Honestly, including the run-ins with Deadpool as Peter, he'd talked to the spandex-clad mercenary _maybe_ eight times. Peter was not particularly outgoing by nature, and counted very few people in his life as actual “friends.” As far as Spider-Man went, he couldn’t imagine having many friends who knew him only as a mask, and couldn’t think of anyone he would actually consider Spider-Man’s friend.

“Aww, c'mon Spidey, you know you love me,” Deadpool insisted, making a sweeping gesture as if that might somehow sway Spider-Man’s opinion in his favor.

“I don't _despise_ you, Deadpool. That's as much as I’m willing to admit,” Spider-Man told Deadpool tiredly. Absently, he noted that the merc’s mask was missing the hole in the forehead, so he assumed Deadpool had swapped out his mask while he'd been sleeping. Ugh. Now he was mentally berating himself for that again. How could he just _fall asleep_ like that? He pulled himself to his feet, clambering down from the back of the bench, absently wondering what time it was. He hoped he had time to take a nap before class, he was stiff from sleeping on the ground. He started walking towards the edge of the roof, intending to take his leave.

Deadpool scooted closer to Spider-Man, uncharacteristically tentative. “Before you fly home to your Spider-Nest, I just have one itty-bitty question,” he said, his casual tone sounding somewhat forced, like he didn't want Spider-Man to know how invested he was in knowing the answer to his question. “How did I...we… get up here?”

Spider-Man hesitated, the phantom smell of blood and dumpster filling his nostrils for a moment. “Nightly patrols,” he finally managed. He felt sick, a little bit, talking about this, feeling as though he’d witnessed something very personal, something _no one could ever know_. Spider-Man wasn’t sure if Deadpool would be comfortable with _anyone_ knowing what had gone down earlier that night. “I spotted you in the alley.” He almost left it at that, but for some reason continued, “I’m surprised someone managed to get the drop on you.” He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he said it. He supposed he just wanted to give Deadpool an out, let the merc think he _didn’t know_ what had happened.

“Oh, well, nobody’s perfect,” Deadpool said with a shrug, “‘cept for you, darlin’.”

“Um, no,” Spider-Man corrected him firmly, “I’m not.”

“Well your _ass_ is perfect, then,” Deadpool said, gesturing demonstratively. “It looks so... _touchable_.”

“If you touch me there without my _express_ permission I will web you to the wall and leave you there,” Spider-Man warned him, folding his arms and hoping his body language communicated just how serious he was about that threat.

“Oooh, bondage, that sounds sexy,” Deadpool replied, throwing in a few pelvic thrusts for emphasis.

Spider-Man sighed and covered his face with a hand. “Wow, okay, I’m going to leave now.”

“Wait,” Deadpool said, “You still didn’t explain how we got up _here._ ” he gestured around at the rooftop’s small bench and sparse shrubbery before turning to Spider-Man, his body language practically screaming ‘ _Well? I’m waiting.'_

Peter felt his face begin to burn, and was suddenly very glad for the presence of a mask to hide his face. He knew he was very expressive, his thoughts were written plain as day across his face. It was just another reason why wearing the mask was such a liberating experience. “Well,” he struggled to explain, “I just...I thought you wouldn’t want to wake up alone,” he said lamely, turning to leave before Deadpool had the chance to laugh. As he shot his web out into the cold, black night, Deadpool made a noise from somewhere behind him. Spider-Man leapt from the roof, swinging away as fast as he could, the wind rushing in his ears to mask the sound of laughter that he was _sure_ was ringing out behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally overwhelmed at the positive response I've received for this fic! I hope you enjoy the latest installment!


	4. An Anticipated Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why DID he take the tacos, anyway?

Deadpool stood on the rooftop, dumbfounded.

**Did he just?**

**_He DID just_** **.**

Deadpool continued to stand, staring blankly at the empty space Spider-Man had occupied earlier, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. He couldn't seem to settle on an emotion, heart pounding in his ears, an all too familiar ache in his chest, a subconscious high-pitched squeal of excitement…

 ** _I think he broke him,_** White said.

 **Hopefully not forever,** Yellow complained, **I'm already bored.**

“Would you two shut up? I'm trying to bask in the moment!”

 **_Or at least process it_** , White added mockingly. **_Imagine, someone actually thinking about_ ** **your** **_feelings for once. That's a plot twist._ **

“I know, right?” Deadpool agreed, finally pulling himself away from the edge of the building. “And the night actually ended _better_ than it started!”

 **_Oh yeah sure, just forget all about how you traumatized that doe-eyed kid and stank up his apartment before blowing your brains out,_ ** White grumbled.

“Oh shit,” Deadpool replied oh-so-eloquently, “I totally did that, didn't I?”

 **You also ran off with his tacos.** Yellow reminded him, not one to be left out when the blame game was in full swing.

“Fuuuck, why would I do that?” Deadpool demanded.

He could practically hear the shrug emoji as the two boxes contemplated this before finally deciding.

**_Because you're an asshole?_ **

**Because we're assholes.**

Deadpool frowned. “Am I an asshole?” he wondered. “I don't think I am.”

 **You're definitely an asshole,** Yellow assured Wade. **And you smell like one too.**

 **_No, he smells like something that crawled in his asshole and then_ ** **died** **_up there,_ ** White chimed in helpfully.

“Thanks for that charming mental image, guys, I appreciate the effort,” Wade muttered, his good mood vanishing as quickly as Spidey had earlier.

 **_That's what we're here for,_ ** White replied with false cheer.

“You guys are the worst friends a guy could ask for.” Wade shook his head.

 **We aren't your friends, though.** Yellow said.

 **_We're just stuck in your head is all._ ** White added.

“Why the fuck would I take the tacos with me and _not eat them?_ ” Deadpool demanded, still fixated on the question.

 **_Why does it even matter?_ ** White demanded exasperatedly.

“It just bothers me,” Deadpool muttered, still musing on what would possess him to run off with tacos he had no intention of eating. He looked around a moment later, and made a startling realization. “Hey!” he yelped, “I'm back at the apartment!”

 **Yeah you were talking the whole way back,** Yellow said, sounding baffled.   **Were you on autopilot or something?**

“Maybe I was,” Deadpool mused, mind leaping to make connections. “Maybe _that's_ why I took the tacos! Autopilot!”

 **_Oh my god he's still stuck on the tacos_** , White griped.

“If I was on autopilot, maybe I was just getting rid of any evidence that I had been there!” Deadpool said excitedly.

 **_Yeah well you left your wrappers scattered all around the room, so there goes that theory._ ** White was not giving any ground at all.

 **I'm pretty sure it's just the ‘stuffing breadsticks into my purse’ meme come to life.** Yellow offered.

 **_Don't_ ** **help** **_him,_ ** White hissed.

“Yeah!” Deadpool crowed, “Let's go with that one.”

 **_The readers are going to hate you for spending a good three hundred words on the question of why you deprived the poor kid of his tacos._ ** White told Deadpool with aplomb.

“I dunno about that, I think most fans enjoy a little meta every now and then,” Wade argued.

 **While we are meta-ing, let's talk about why you broke Parker’s camera and didn't buy him a new one.** Yellow suggested unhelpfully.

 **_My god,_ ** White gasped, sarcasm dripping from every word, **_you traumatized him twice in one day!_ **

Excited, Yellow chimed in. **That's got to be a new record for ‘innocent civilian collateral’!**

White snorted. **_Trust me, it's not even close._ **

Wade winced, countless faces swimming before his eyes momentarily. “I'd rather we didn't,” he began, only to be cut off by White.

**_The current record is eighteen and involves almost-dying multiple times before getting eaten by a-_ **

“I don't need to be reminded,” Deadpool said louder, as if that would somehow drown out a voice that resided inside his fucked-up hellhole of a mind. He flopped down on his lumpy, beat-up excuse for a couch, scrambling for something to do while the boxes argued about which civilian casualty was the worst one. Deadpool may have been a cold-blooded killer, but he did at least make the effort to avoid un-aliving people he wasn't specifically paid to un-alive. Unless he was in a bad mood. Then all bets were off. Several episodes of whatever was on TV later, Yellow and White seemed to have come to some sort of agreement, at least for the moment.

“I still feel bad about that Peter kid,” Deadpool muttered. “I mean, if someone deprived me of tacos I would be pretty upset.”

 **_Maybe you should do something about that,_ ** White sneered.

“Yeah! ...like what?” Wade scratched at his head thoughtfully. “I mean, going to his house turned out to be a bust.”

 **_If only_ ** **someone** **_could have warned you that it was a terrible idea! Oh wait…_ **

“Passive aggression does not become you,” Wade informed White magnanimously.

 **We could buy him lunch!** Yellow suggested. **He goes to some science college thing, right?**

 **_Nerd,_ ** White scoffed.

“Actually, that's not a bad idea,” Deadpool mused.

 **_Oh sure, if you want to look like a crazy stalker,_ ** White snorted.

 **He's got the crazy part down already!** Yellow pointed out excitedly.

“Still not helping,” Wade grumbled, grabbing a handful of takeout menus lying scattered on the table. Chinese, Chinese, Pizza, Subs, Pizza… he tossed the menus back on the table. “Why don't they have _breakfast_ takeout menus?” he demanded. “What if I just want a stack of pancakes delivered?”

**_You could just go to ihop. I'm sure it opens in like an hour anyway._ **

Deadpool waved the suggestion aside like a pesky fly. “That ruins the whole _charm_ of delivery!”

 **_That is the first and hopefully last time I've heard you refer to delivery as ‘charming’_ ** **,** White drawled.

 **I dunno, I think it has a certain charm to it,** Yellow replied.

“See?” Deadpool insisted. “Charm.”

 **_You're both insane._ ** White grumbled.

“Yes, but so are you,” Wade replied.

 **_Touché_**.

Deadpool sighed dramatically. “I guess I could just-” he suppressed a shudder, “cook.”

 **I thought you liked cooking,** Yellow sounded confused.

“Yes, but not when I'm _busy_ ,” Deadpool said impatiently.

**_Busy stalking an 18-year-old boy-_ **

“Young man!”

 **_*sigh* 18-year-old_ ** **young man** **_so you can what? Get him lunch?_ **

“I feel like trying tacos again might be pushing it,” Deadpool mused, still not moving from his prone position on the couch. He glanced at the Chinese menu. “Do you think if I order like fifty fortune cookies and crush them into a bowlful of milk they'll taste like cereal?”

 **_I think you're disgusting_** , White volunteered immediately, while Yellow settled for making a gagging noise.

“Maybe I should just buy him something from the cafeteria,” Wade was back on Peter. “And ask him about that camera? he seemed real broken up about it.”

 **_It's not like it was a thousand-dollar investment or anything,_ ** White commented sarcastically.

Ignoring the box, Wade picked up another menu. “Do you think there's such a thing as a breakfast pizza?” he mused aloud, and both boxes groaned loudly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIVE. Sorry you guys, I was REALLY SUPER STUCK on this fic, I kept coming back to it and getting maybe one, two sentences down before I wouldn't know what came next. I think (fingers crossed) I have an idea of where this is headed now so hopefully updates will be more regular, though (as is now obvious), I cannot make any promises.


	5. An Abundance of Cheeseburgers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool tries to feed Peter Parker, round two. It's slightly more successful this time 'round.

Peter was incredibly grateful to learn that there was an open position in the tutoring center, and that he was qualified to tutor Physics, Chemistry, and Math based on his current class load and last semester’s grades. It only paid eight dollars an hour and technically it was volunteer work, not a proper job, the money was an “incentive” to attract tutors, apparently. As far as Peter was concerned, the plan worked. The best part? Peter had downtime, because so few students actually came for tutoring help unless specifically required to by their professors.

So Peter could use the time to work on his homework, occasionally help a fellow student stumble through basic higher math or balancing equations, and get back to homework. The one problem was tutoring required a fixed schedule, but the head of the STEM tutoring center assured Peter that if he had an emergency they would understand. Peter had to use Aunt May as an excuse _“she lives alone, she's getting older, I worry about her…”_ , but it was the only real excuse he had. He couldn't exactly tell the tutoring coordinator “sometimes I have to put on a spandex suit that leaves little to the imagination and wrestle with a giant lizard-man” now, could he?

In any case, he would probably be able to eat next week, which had been looking dicey yesterday. Peter settled in, going over some of his notes to prepare for a test he had in two days. The tutoring center was remarkably empty, only the light whoosh-whoosh of air in the vents, a few fingertips clacking across keyboards, the occasional muttered word across the room. It was peaceful, and Peter couldn't believe that he could make money _and_ study simultaneously. It didn't pay nearly as well as the Daily Bugle, but there was no way in hell his smartphone was going to get a good enough shot of anything to be able to sell it to J Jonah Jameson.

And so Peter was going over his notes, trying not to think...about...food…

He smelled something heavenly. Deep fried. Greasy. Cheesy. He looked up, just as a bulging bag was plopped down in front of his face. “I got you burgers,” someone said, their voice a deep rumble that Peter couldn’t automatically place. “Best burger in New York,” the voice promised, and Peter’s eyes took in the dark wash jeans, black hoodie pulled low over…. red and black. Panda eyes. Deadpool.

Peter wasn't sure whether to be angry, frightened, or baffled. Ever the overachiever, he tried for all three. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Peter yelped. The tutoring coordinator shushed them from across the room, narrowing her eyes at the food Deadpool had put on the table.

“I brought burgers,” Deadpool said, as if this solved everything. “Please eat this time.”

Peter glanced around nervously. “Deadpool, don't kill me for this, but I _can't.”_

Deadpool sounded petulant. “Why not?”

“I'm _working_.” Peter gestured around.

“Doing what?” Deadpool sounded unconvinced.

“I'm a tutor,” Peter explained.

“Oh my god, I have _such_ a teacher kink, tell me I'm a _baaaad_ student,” Deadpool splayed himself across the table, scattering Peter’s papers and narrowly avoiding sending his textbook to the floor.

Peter stared at Deadpool for a moment. Deadpool continued to lay splayed out on the table. He was going to get _fired_ from a _volunteer position_ on his first day.

Peter tugged at his hair desperately, trying to find the right way to word things to Deadpool. “Um, about the cheeseburgers, I appreciate the offer, I really do.” Peter ruffled his hair anxiously, suddenly remembering the last time he’d seen the masked mercenary as _Peter_ . “But _why_ are you here? Also, let me state for the record that I was _really_ worried after you left so suddenly, and _through a window_ , I might add!” no, he had not forgotten that point. He doubted he ever would.

Deadpool stared back, still luxuriously draped across the table, saying nothing.

Peter took this as a sign to continue. “I didn't get to walk you to the door or send you home with a doggie bag or know how to call you and check to make sure you got home safe…” He was rambling now, there’s no way he would have been able to do even _half_ of the regular ‘host’ duties Aunt May had taught him.

And Deadpool was _still_ lying across his tutoring table, the smell of cheeseburgers filling the air. Sure, the merc didn't _feel_ dangerous, but recently he'd learned firsthand that Deadpool could go from playful to deadly in a matter of seconds. Peter trailed off, realizing that Deadpool hadn't moved in a long time. He gestured weakly to indicate he was done speaking.

“...you. Worried?” Deadpool asked in a small voice. “About _me_?”

“Of course! You were my guest!” Peter hissed, glancing over to where his supervisor was about to stand up.

Oh man this was _bad_. What if someone realized Deadpool was armed? Would they call security? Peter couldn't afford to reveal his identity, but he also hated the idea of Deadpool turning security guards into katana shish kebabs. He pushed at Deadpool without actually touching him.

“Now can you please, for the _love_ of _god_ , get off the table?” Peter glanced over again, paling as his supervisor pushed back her chair. “My supervisor is going to kill me. Ohhhh my god I _just_ got this job _today_ I _cannot_ screw this up.”

Deadpool seemed to deflate a little, practically oozing off the table. “I'll go,” he said, and something in his tone made Peter feel _guilty._ Which was ridiculous. Deadpool was _clearly_ out of line here. This latest stunt had taken their interactions  _way_ beyond stalkerish and right into serial killer territory. Who stalked a guy in his home _and_ work, just to bring him _food_? A serial foodie?

Peter watched the mercenary slowly slouch towards the door and sighed. He couldn't just let him go,not after what happened the _last_ time Deadpool was upset. “I finish in an hour and twenty minutes,” he told Deadpool, raising his voice slightly to be heard, earning an irritated look from his supervisor, “If you don't mind waiting.”

Deadpool brightened considerably at this. “Okay!” he said cheerfully, whirling around and waving. “Help yourself to a cheeseburger or ten,” he added as an afterthought, indicating the grease-stained bag still sitting on his tutoring table before practically skipping out of the STEM tutoring center. Peter’s supervisor was still glaring at the bag full of burgers.

“Um…help yourself?” Peter said weakly.

She pointed at a sign on the wall, which clearly read “ **NO** food or drink near the computers”.

Peter indicated his table, which was computer-free. “You could sit here,” he offered weakly. With one last cold stare, his supervisor went back to clack-clacking on her keyboard.

Peter tried to withdraw a burger quietly, seeing as he was actually desperately hungry. For lunch, he'd mooched some of MJ's Doritos, snagged an apple that his lab partner had been about to throw out because it had a bruise, and drank his fill of tap water. That had been four hours ago.

The first bite was like an explosion of heaven- Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to afford meat that wasn't fast food or suspiciously aged on the discount rack. The burger was still slightly warm, the bacon crisp, cheese still soft, bun springy and supple. He almost moaned, the burger was practically a religious experience. He finished it in approximately four bites and unwrapped a second. He would have gone for a third, but a student arrived. Peter offered him a burger, but he declined, so Peter scooted the bag aside and went over covalent and valent bonds with the student, who had clearly been paying zero attention in high school chemistry.

The hour and twenty minutes went by quickly, and Peter had almost forgotten about Deadpool until he stepped out of the tutoring lab, burger bag tucked under his arm, and drew up short practically nose-to-nose with the masked merc.

“Oh,” he said mildly. “You waited here?”

“Nah,” Deadpool said casually, “I scoped out the campus for about an hour. Then I waited here. On that bench,” Deadpool pointed at the bench right outside the tutoring center. “I got up when I heard you coming.”

They were still standing nose-to-nose. “Okay,” Peter said. “Um, thanks for the burgers.”

Deadpool squealed like an excited child. “Did you eat them? Did you _like_ them?”

“I had two,” Peter said, “And they were really delicious, thanks.”

“Yes, you told me,” Deadpool addressed empty air dismissively.

Peter wasn't entirely sure if that comment was directed at him, so he settled for a pleasantly bland smile while he waited for Deadpool’s attention to return to him. It didn't take long.

“So!” Deadpool was back in Peter's face, practically fogging up his glasses. “Are you still hungry?”

How do you say no to an unstable mercenary? “I could eat,” Peter said amiably. He wasn't lying, he could eat a _horse_. He wasn't convinced of the company, but Deadpool seemed determined to carry himself in a nonthreatening manner and he'd gone to the effort of wearing civilian clothes. Peter felt like he owed him for the trouble, if nothing else. Beyond that, he was intrigued. What kind of mercenary personally delivered burgers to replace a personal taco delivery?  He wanted to know more, and he supposed sitting down for a meal together might facilitate that.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite go as smoothly as Peter hoped.

Their dinner not-date started out fine, at least. Deadpool dragged him a little ways off campus to a dirty little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with some of the best Chinese food Peter had ever eaten. Then again, that could have been the hunger talking. The trouble started about three bites in, when Peter realized that despite the mountain of food Deadpool had ordered, he wasn't eating any of it.

“Aren't you hungry?” Peter asked, setting his chopsticks down, feeling concerned. “Don't you like Chinese food?”

“Oh I love it,” Deadpool assured him. “I mean, Chimichangas are locked in first place, but fried rice is definitely somewhere in the top ten.”

“But…” Peter felt defeated. He had no idea what the right choice here was. Last time he’d insisted that Deadpool eat, and that had been a _huge_ mistake. What would happen if he pressed the eating issue again? He didn't want to find him in _another_ alley, head splattered across the walls and ground, dead by his own hand.

The mental image that floated before his eyes at the reminder made him sick, his stomach clenching violently. It came back to Peter as clearly as if he’d stepped back in time, his nostrils suddenly choked with the phantom smell of blood and dumpster. Peter had to duck his head, gulping deep breaths and trying to center himself. It took him about a minute to get back to the Chinese restaurant from the dirty, gritty alley, and another thirty seconds to get his breathing back to an even rhythm. It wasn't until Peter had gotten himself back under control that he looked up to see Deadpool watching him curiously.

“You okay?” Deadpool asked.

“Yeah, totally fine,” a Peter lied weakly, fumbling for an excuse. “Just… asthma.” He wasn't fooling anyone, especially not Deadpool. He winced, knowing that the mercenary probably wouldn't appreciate being lied to. He was right.

“If you don't want to tell me, just say ‘I don't want to tell you,’” Deadpool said, making his disgust painfully clear with the tone he used to address Peter. “Don't lie.”

Peter felt his face begin to burn, and he felt obligated to respond in some way. “I'm sorry,” he said, then added in an almost defensive tone, “I was too embarrassed to tell you the real reason.”

Deadpool indicated for him to go on, before pausing. “If you don't want to tell me,” he said, “All you gotta say is ‘I don't want to tell you’.”

“It was a panic attack,” Peter said in a rush, and that was close enough to the truth that it didn't trip Deadpool's internal lie detector. Deadpool seemed about to say something in response to that when Peter realized how terrible that must have sounded. “But not because of you!” he added quickly, which was _definitely_ a lie.

Deadpool started to shake his head, and Peter could feel his grasp on the situation slowly slipping out of his control.

“Well no, actually it _was_ sort of because of you,” Peter amended.  “But not because I think you might _kill_ me, just because this is a really weird situation and I'm not sure how to handle this and oh my _god_ what if you jump out of a window again I've never annoyed someone so bad they literally jumped out a window just to get away from me,” _and then blew their own brains out_ , he didn't add. Peter knew he should have stopped talking a long time ago, but the words just started tumbling out and he'd barely managed to hold in that last bit. He cradled his head in his hands, feeling like a wrung-out sponge. “Sorry,” he apologized again. “I’m an emotional wreck.”

Deadpool sat with his head cocked to the side. “Baby boy, you are an enigma,” he declared. “Where does a pretty thing like you get off thinking it's _bad_ that he chased off an ugly old creep like me?”

“I'm sure you're not ugly,” Peter assured Deadpool, looking up.  

The masked mercenary barked a dark, derisive laugh at that but otherwise made no comment.

“Anyway,” Peter said, softer this time, picking at his orange chicken, “You're _sure_ you're not hungry?” He looked up nervously. “Please don't jump out the window again.”

“I only did that so I wouldn't kill you,” Deadpool said, and then froze. He appeared to be listening intently, though to what, Peter couldn't say. “He was bound to find out sooner or later!” Deadpool said, though Peter wasn't sure who the mercenary was talking to. The merc waited again, then sighed loudly. “Fine, your complaint has been lodged and duly ignored.” Deadpool turned back to Peter. “Anyway, where was I?”

“You...were trying not to kill me?” Peter asked in a small voice. _What gives, Spider-Sense? A little warning might be nice next time!_ He remembered, belatedly, that his Spider-Sense _had_ warned him. Now he knew why….

“It's nothing personal,” Deadpool tried to reassure Peter, gesturing with his hands in a soothing “there, there” motion. “I'm kinda fucked up, see,” here he rapped on the side of his head with his knuckles, “and sometimes my head plays tricks on me, and I get to where I can't tell who’s out to get me and who isn't,” he shrugged. “So I gotta get everyone before they get me,” said Deadpool, making a ‘what are you going to do?’ gesture before continuing. “Next thing you know, swish-swish, bang-bang, lights-out, nighty-night,” Deadpool patted a katana affectionately, his other hand pointing a finger pistol in roughly the direction of Peter’s forehead.

“Oh…” Peter said slowly, suddenly very grateful for his spider-sense. He was sure that even with his accelerated healing he wouldn't be able to survive ‘ _swish-swish bang-bang_ ’. “Okay,” he said finally. “Well, can you _at least_ tell me what I did wrong so I don't do it to you again?”

Deadpool made a noncommittal noise. “I'm not usually in the habit of sharing my weaknesses with twelve-year-olds.”

“I'm _eighteen_ ,” Peter growled, “And I feel bad, okay? I don't want to put you in a bad headspace or whatever, so if you could give me some general guidelines or something that would be nice.”

Deadpool eyed Peter. “You say this like you expect to see me again.”

“If I ever manage to scrape together enough to buy a new camera, that's a distinct possibility, since I mostly photograph supers for the Daily Bugle,” Peter replied exasperatedly. “Plus, we’re spending time together right now, what if I set you off in a restaurant full of nice people eating Chinese food?” but it was more than just that. “I don't want to upset you!” _I don't want to spend the rest of the night wondering if you're lying out there somewhere with a bullet in your brain_ , Peter added internally. _I can't handle worrying about something like that every time I say something stupid._

Of _course_ Deadpool latched onto the wrong thing to take away from Peter's outburst. “Wait, you haven't bought a new camera yet?” Deadpool gasped, clapping his hands to his face. “Is _that_ why you started a new job?”

“That's…” Peter fumbled for words. “...none of your business,” he finally muttered.

“But it's _my fault_!” Deadpool exclaimed, sounding truly upset. “Let me buy you a new one!” he insisted, patting at his pockets, presumably looking for his wallet.

“No!” Peter said, too quickly, too harshly.

Deadpool wilted where he sat, saying nothing, arms dropping limply into his lap.  

Peter backpedaled, trying to explain his reasoning in a calmer, more rational tone. “I don't… I can't… I won't accept charity,” Peter finally said. “I'll find the money, somehow.”

“But it's my fault!” Deadpool insisted, leaning forward slightly.

“You offered me tacos,” Peter replied. “You gave me that, plus burgers, and dinner. That’s more than enough.”

“But...it's my fault…” Deadpool insisted weakly.

“I don't want charity,” Peter told him firmly. “You weren't going to replace it before you found out I couldn't, so you're not buying me one now that you know I can't.”

Deadpool squirmed uncomfortably. “But…”

“I'll be fine,” Peter insisted, hating the way his voice cracked. _Damn_ he sounded pathetic. No _wonder_ Deadpool thought he needed help. Who was he kidding? He _did_ need help. He was just too proud to admit it, or accept it. At least when it was stated so overtly.

“Let's do Tuesdays,” Deadpool said suddenly.

Peter blinked, somewhat taken aback by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. “What?”

“Taco Tuesdays!” Deadpool crowed, as if this might clear things up. It did not.

“I don't follow,” Peter said slowly, wondering if that was his fault or Deadpool’s. The merc’s behavior was pretty...odd, to say the least.

“Let's make this a regular thing!” Deadpool elaborated, gesturing widely to indicate the restaurant they were seated in on the word _this_. “You know, dinner. On Tuesdays. For Tacos!”

Peter blinked. Had he not been _listening_? “I don't accept char-”

“But,” Deadpool interrupted, “you already accepted my tacos once.” Peter was about to point out that it had been under duress, since the mercenary had broken into his apartment. But Deadpool saw Peter about to speak, and barreled on before the bespectacled nerd could interrupt. “Besides, I’m very selfishly motivated.”

Peter raised an eyebrow in response to this ridiculous claim. “How do you figure?” he challenged.

“You're cute and I wanna take you out to dinner so I have an excuse to stare at you without looking like a creepy-ass stalker.” Deadpool gestured magnanimously. “Apology Taco Tuesday is a great excuse to get more time with that adorable face of yours.”

To his profound embarrassment, Peter felt himself blushing. “I don't know, I'm not… that's very…” he gestured abstractly.

“Taco Tuesday,” Deadpool said decidedly. “We're doing it.”

 _That's just one more thing to cram into my already overcrowded schedule,_ Peter thought miserably. But then he looked at Deadpool, leaning forward eagerly, waiting for his answer, and suddenly Peter didn't have it in him to say _‘no’_ . Especially not when the thought of rejection was quickly followed by the thought of _blood_ and _dumpster_ and _prone body_ … “Okay, Fine, Taco Tuesday,” Peter agreed grudgingly.

“Excellent!” Deadpool rubbed his hands together excitedly. “I know just the spot…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this is so late! I've been stuck on this fic for awhile, and that compounded with medical issues and NaNoWriMo kept me from doing anything with this fic for quite awhile. To all you readers who have stuck with me, kudos to you and I hope you'll enjoy the upcoming chapters, whenever they finally decide to make an appearance...


	6. A Terrible Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade discovers that Peter's pride is possibly greater than Deadpool's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have come to realize that im just really bad at Wade's POV. Sorry.

The kid was a miracle, Wade decided. His warm brown eyes were as sweet as hot chocolate. Peter paparazzi seemed determined to mess with his hair almost constantly, scruffing the hair at the nape of his neck, combing his fingers through it, smoothing it down, fluffing it up… it was driving Wade  _ wild _ , he wanted to run his own hands through the kids hair, grab a handful, tug his head back and kiss him breathless before…

**_You do realize we are not at home and if you start sporting a hard-on you'll have no way of hiding it, right?_ ** White interrupted Wade’s fantasy with an unwelcome dose of reality. 

**Maybe the kid would offer to help take care of the problem,** Yellow mused wistfully. 

“Yeah and maybe I'll win this year's miss America pageant,” Wade scoffed. 

Peter looked up from his egg roll. The boy ate like he was starving-- and not in a figurative sense, Wade was beginning to realize. He watched the kid for several long seconds, noting the hollowness of his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, how obviously his wrist bones stood out against nearly translucent skin. The kid was, Wade realized with dawning horror, literally showing early signs of malnutrition. He’d seen enough of it, in his lifetime, to know what it looked like. He immediately decided that he would make sure they had enough leftovers from this chinese visit to last him the next… Wade did some mental calculations of how long chinese food could realistically be expected to last before the risk of food poisoning became too great. Three days? He'd make sure the kid had three days worth of food to go home with. 

He realized that Peter had brought the burgers with him too.

**_I know there's probably food poisoning potential in carrying burgers around for half a day without refrigerating them,_ ** White commented,  **_But maybe in his case he’d be better off running the risk._ **

“Plus they're delicious,” Wade agreed. 

Peter swallowed hard, pausing to take a sip of water. “Pardon?” he said.

“Wasn't talking to you,” Deadpool reassured Peter. 

Peter looked like he wanted to eat more, but stopped, laying a hand lightly over his gut. “Oh my god,” he commented softly, “I think I’m going to puke,” he said this in that mild way a person does when they're trying not to alarm you but also want you to know they're actually quite serious. 

He gripped the edge of the table before releasing it quickly, clapping a hand over his mouth and struggling to rise. 

Deadpool belatedly remembered that heavy, greasy foods were usually rough on the gut to begin with, and that this kid had apparently been skipping meals  _ a lot _ lately. He’d just encouraged the poor kid to binge and now it was all about to come up. 

**Fire in the hole!** Yellow screamed unhelpfully. 

**_Wow, no matter what you do things always seem to turn out worse for the kid when you're around,_ ** White commented.

Deadpool ignored the boxes, looking around for the restroom. It was all the way across the room full of diners. Peter’s adam’s apple was bobbing wildly as he swallowed hard to try and keep the food down but Wade already knew that would be a lost cause. Without thinking too much (as was his usual modus operandi), Deadpool wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulder and hustled him outside, pulling the kid around the corner into the alley with the dumpsters, right as the kid convulsed, vomit spurting from between his fingers. Wade tugged Peter’s hand away from his face, barely noticing the puke. His other hand rubbed small circles almost absently on Peter’s back as the kid shuddered, spat, started to stand up, then hunched over and puked again, the sour smell of stomach acid and half-digested food filling the air. 

Peter coughed once before straightening, swiping at his mouth with his other hand. “Oh my god,” he rasped, “it's a good thing this isn't a date because this would be the worst date ever.” He ducked his head,before turning his head slightly to glance at something below eye-level.

Wade looked down too. He was still holding Peter’s vomit-coated hand. He quickly released the hand, stepping back. “Whoops, didn't mean to pop your personal bubble there,” he quipped. 

**_Yes you did_ ** , White said.  **_It was pretty gross._ **

**But hey you got to touch him and he didn't run away screaming, that has to count for something,** Yellow said hopefully. 

**_Pretty sure puking puts us in negative-point territory,_ ** White replied. 

“Yeah in retrospect maybe encouraging Petey to binge on heavy greasy foods wasn't the best idea,” Deadpool admitted. 

Peter was looking at his puke-coated hand like it was a total stranger. “I’m so embarrassed,” he said faintly, then shivered. 

Deadpool glanced around and realized it was getting towards dusk, already dark in between the taller buildings. “Let's reschedule dinner for another day,” he suggested, heading for the restaurant entrance. Peter followed him inside, looking dazed.  There was vomit on his shoes. Also Deadpool’s shoes, but really, what was one more body fluid? The loudmouth merc was used to getting covered in a lot worse than a few specks of vomit. They crossed the room quickly, Deadpool leading the way to the restroom. 

Once inside, Peter rinsed off his hand, wiped up the few specks that had dribbled down his shirt or up his sleeve and scrubbed at his shoes before rinsing out his mouth. Deadpool excused himself as Peter continued to rinse and spit, and settled down at their booth to wait for the kid to return. 

Peter emerged from the bathroom looking pale. “I’m really sorry about that,” he said. “I… that's never happened to me before…” he looked baffled. Like he didn't even  _ know  _ what starving himself could do to a gorgeous kid like him. 

“Yeah, well, that's what happens when you don't eat for too long before trying to eat too much,” Wade said, almost surprising himself at how angry he sounded. Was this a sensitive issue? It seemed like this was maybe a sensitive issue. 

**_I mean you've been starved before, even starved yourself more than a few times,_ ** White commented.  **_Why does it bother you so much that he starves too?_ **

**Are you worried that he doesn't eat because he hates himself as much as you do?** Yellow added.

**_Don't bother worrying about that,_ ** White told him.  **_No one hates themselves as much as you hate yourself._ **

Peter seemed taken aback by the anger in Wade's tone, pressing back against the booth seat like he was trying to sink into the cushion and disappear. “I, I don't know what you…” he trailed off as Deadpool leaned forward, deadly serious. 

“Is there a reason you're starving yourself, baby boy?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “I’m not-”

“Do not lie to me again,” Deadpool’s voice was low and menacing. 

The kid’s shoulders slumped. “I don't know,” he whispered. “I just don't have food in my house,” he said then, as if this was a  _ reasonable _ answer. 

“Can you afford to  _ get _ food in your house?” Wade demanded. 

**_Obviously not, just look at him_ ** , White said. 

Peter’s face flushed. “Well I,” he paused, “sometimes I…” he covered his face with his hands, hiding from Deadpool. “No,” he admitted miserably. “I can't.”

“Do you have, I dunno, food stamps?” Deadpool asked. 

“I’m over 18 but under 22 so I’m still considered a dependent but not a child, and even if I  _ were _ older or younger, I don't have enough time to meet the work requirements, and my major isn't a career preparation course so...” Peter answered the question without hesitation, so he'd at least looked into SNAP benefits. Wade wasn't sure if he found that encouraging or more disheartening. Peter was still talking. “Freelance photography is an unreliable source of income but it's all I have-” he cut himself off at that, face screwing up like he’d tasted something sour. “ _ had _ ,” he corrected himself. 

Now Wade really felt like a heel. “Baby boy-”

“Stop it,” Peter said suddenly, slapping an open palm down on the table. 

Deadpool sat back a little, surprised. “Stop what?”

“Looking at me!” Peter snapped, and Wade had no idea what he was talking about. After a moment of befuddled silence, Peter explained. “I can  _ feel  _ your pity and I don't want it - I don't need it. I can make it on my own, so stop  _ feeling sorry for me _ .” He scowled at the food. He was probably ravenous, but everything was greasy and deep fried and his stomach probably wasn't ready for anything just yet, much less  _ that _ . 

Deadpool could understand the feeling of hating to be pitied-- it was a big part of why he kept the mask on. He hated the cringes and stares too, but the pity… there was something spectacularly awful about feeling pitiful, and he couldn't fault the kid for disliking it.  But honestly, food was kind of important and pride or not, eating was a big thing to give up just to keep people from  _ pitying _ you. 

“Fair enough,” Deadpool said, “let's strike a deal.”

**_A deal? What's this about a deal?_ ** White demanded. 

**I didn't hear anything about a deal,** Yellow added.  **What deal are we thinking?**

**_Please tell me you aren't improvising,_ ** White said. 

“Shut up and let me handle this,” Deadpool told them exasperatedly before turning to Peter. “So, part of the reason I tracked you down wasn't just because I owed you a taco delivery,” he confessed. 

**_Oh wait, this is the original plan,_ ** White noted with relief. 

“Why  _ did _ you track me down, then?” Peter asked, starting to look fidgety. Did the kid have something to hide? It couldn't be worse than  _ starving _ , could it? 

**_Don't ask those sorts of questions with your luck,_ ** White chided.  **_You'll end up finding out he's got a terminal illness._ **

**The fact that he hasn't run away screaming yet indicates he's at least terminally stupid,** Yellow added. 

“I want Spider-Man,” Deadpool told Peter, pointedly ignoring the running commentary in his head. 

The kid paled at his words. “You… want… Spider-Man.” his eyes slid in the direction of the door, like he was calculating how long it would take to get away and whether it was worth the attempt. 

“Don't bother,” Deadpool told him. “Even if you did  _ miraculously  _ manage to escape, I could definitely find you again.”

Peter slumped in his seat. “I only have his number,” he told Deadpool slowly, gaze fixed on the table. “We only communicate via text. I've never seen his face and even I can't guarantee he’ll show up. I've been taken hostage before, and trust me - it's no guarantee he’ll come.”

Now Deadpool was confused. “What?”

Peter looked up, equally confused. “What?” he parroted back.

“No seriously,” Deadpool said again, “what? 

“This is the part where you threaten me and torture me until I reveal Spider-Man’s secret identity, right?” Peter spread his hands. “Do your worst. I won't tell you anything. Hell, I barely  _ know _ anything.”

Deadpool found himself shaking his head before Peter had even finished speaking. “First of all, baby boy, do  _ not  _ go around just casually inviting people to ‘do their worst’ to you, and  _ especially _ don't go around extending that sort of invitation to fucked up sons a’ bitches like me.”

Peter’s face twisted a little. Poor lamb had _no_ _idea_ how cruel the world could really be. Wade felt a sudden, urgent need to protect him, to shelter that innocence. 

**_If you really wanted to protect him you’d walk away_ ** , White reminded Deadpool. 

Ignoring that, Deadpool turned back to Peter to clear up the confusion. “I want  _ pictures _ , Petey. Of his tart little spider-tushy. And the rest of his body. But especially  _ dat ass _ .”

The transformation in Peter’s face was dramatic and immediate. His closed-off, guarded look dropped into a stunned expression as his face turned bright red. “You…  _ what _ ?” he croaked. 

“Spidey pictures. You've got ‘em. I want ‘em. I’m willing to pay handsomely.”

Peter closed his gaping mouth with some effort. “But... _ why _ ?”

Deadpool stared at him for a bit. “Why do you  _ think _ ?”

Peter seemed confused for a moment, before a look of horror crossed his features. “You’re going to--?” he seemed unable (or at the very least  _ unwilling _ ) to complete his statement. 

Deadpool shrugged. “I mean, I used to mostly just find grainy low-quality stuff on the web. But,” he made a low whistle of appreciation, “you sure know how to get a good angle on him.” He shrugged. “How much for… a nice portfolio of maybe 10 shots?”

Peter swallowed hard. “Um…”

“Name your price or I’m naming mine,” Deadpool said. 

Peter blinked. “My usual freelance fee-”

“I want something a bit  _ nicer _ than freelance,” Deadpool interrupted. 

Peter blinked. “My camera isn't -wasn't- that great, and it's not like he  _ models _ for me.” He shrugged helplessly, muttering in an undertone, “More like he grudgingly agreed not to confiscate my camera.”

Deadpool sighed heavily. “Do you have any decent photos that I  _ can’t  _ find with a Google search?”

Peter frowned a little “I thought you were looking for  _ in _ decent photos,” he quipped, and  _ damn  _ if Deadpool didn't love how quickly this kid could bounce back from horrified silence to give as good as he got. 

“Do you  _ have  _ any indecent photos?” Deadpool asked, a small bubble of hope in his chest.  _ Oh Spidey~! _

“No,” Peter answered, dashing all of Deadpool’s hopes with a single syllable. “But I do have photos the Bugle turned down for one reason or another.”

“Please tell me ‘too suggestive’ was one of the reasons,” Deadpool practically swooned. 

“J. Jonah doesn't get past the usual ‘you're incompetent, get out of my office, bring me some new ones next week’,” Peter answered with an exasperated sigh. “But seriously-”

“No you seriously,” Deadpool shot back. “How many photos you got?” 

“I'll need to organize them, and then I can put the watermarked copies on my phone,” Peter answered, “or you could, y'know, break into my apartment again, I guess. Though I’d prefer some advance warning if that's what you decide.” He gave Deadpool a  _ look _ . 

It almost worked, too. Deadpool could  _ allllmost  _ feel a hint of remorse, which he quickly brushed aside. “Holy shit, what do you mean, ‘organize’? How many pictures of spidey’s ass do you  _ have _ ?”

Peter shrugged, “I've been taking his photos for over a year now.” 

Deadpool seemed surprised. “I've never seen you around him.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Don't tell me you've been  _ stalking _ him, because I feel like that's something I should probably warn him about…” 

“Trust me,” Deadpool assured Peter, “Spidey knows when he’s being tailed.”

This seemed to satisfy Peter, who relaxed a little. “So,” he said awkwardly, “I guess you'll be needing my number…” 

Deadpool blinked. “I know where you live and work.”

Peter stared at him. “I don't even know what the appropriate response to that is,” he said after a moment. “I'll just say that the next time you break into my apartment, I might not be so generous with my photos of Spider-Man.”

Deadpool nodded slightly. “Fair enough,” he said. “What's the number?” 

Peter gave him his number, and Deadpool tried and failed to remember his own number before finally agreeing to text Peter as soon as he found his phone. They shuffled around a little, and then Deadpool indicated the door. “Let's blow this popsicle stand,” he suggested, “and get you some food you can actually stomach.”

Peter looked a little queasy. “I don't know if…”

“Relax, I'll just grab you some groceries or something, what do you usually eat?” Deadpool began meandering in the direction of Peter’s apartment, certain they’d stumble across a supermarket en route. 

“Uh...bread?” Peter answered, though it sounded more like a question. “Peanut butter. Carrots…”

Wade waited for more, but nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. “Do you drink milk?”

“Sometimes,” Peter answered. “Not, uh, recently.”

“Do you eat meat?” Wade pressed. “What about soup? Do you like chicken soup?”

“I’m not  _ sick _ ,” Peter protested. 

“Hey, winter is soup season, whether you're sick or not,” Deadpool shot back. “What soups do you like?”

“Anything. Vegetables,” Peter added after a moment’s hesitation. “Fresh fruit is nice too.”

Deadpool shook his head slowly. Who the hell craved  _ vegetables _ ? “What, have you been living on dry toast?”

“No!” Peter’s voice turned shrill in a way that indicated he was  _ definitely lying, _ which gave Deadpool pause. He'd been  _ joking, _ for chrissake.

“Wait, have you  _ really _ ?” Deadpool wasn't  _ trying _ to be obnoxious, he was just genuinely surprised. 

Peter glowered at him. “What did I tell you about the pity?” 

Deadpool shrugged. “I was just surprised.”  _ How are you even  _ standing _ right now, baby boy? _

Peter seemed to relax a little. “Oh, well, okay then.” 

Deadpool stopped, realizing they'd reached Petey’s apartment building. “Shit, we didn't go grocery shopping,” he said. 

“That's none of your concern,” Peter said. 

“Whatever you say, baby boy. Just don't be surprised when a fruit basket appears on your fire escape tomorrow morning,” Deadpool countered. “You'll need the vitamins for good eyesight to pick possible shots of Spidey for me.”

Peter narrowed his eyes in a way that said he didn't buy the excuse for one second, but he was willing to make the compromise if it meant fresh food. “Fine,” he grumbled. 

They stopped outside Peter’s door while he fumbled for his keys. 

“Is this the part of the night where I kiss you goodnight?” Deadpool asked cheekily.

“This is the part where I remind you it wasn't a date,” Peter countered, “And I'm not looking for a relationship right now.”

“Not even casual sex?” Deadpool pouted, leaning against the wall in a way that showcased his lithe, muscular body. 

Peter made a face. “ _ Especially  _ not that,” he said with a little shudder. 

Deadpool wanted to take the comment personally, but just as he was about to loudly demand what exactly was  _ wrong _ with an occasional no-strings-attached roll in the hay, he recognized the faraway look in Peter’s eyes.  Whatever his reasons were, they had very little to do with the here and now. Wade let the subject drop. “Well then, baby boy, sweet dreams and all that.”

Peter nodded absently, fitting his key in the lock. “Call me before dropping in,” he reminded Deadpool. “And…” he turned to Deadpool with the sweetest, most heart-meltingly guileless smile the merc had ever seen, “Thanks for dinner.”

Deadpool couldn't seem to get a word out until the door eased shut behind Peter. His head seemed full of white noise and that  _ dazzling _ smile. It hadn't even been a full grin. Just a real, soft, sincere smile. 

Wade couldn't remember the last time anyone had actually  _ smiled _ at him. 

**_Oh my god you are_ ** **not** **_falling for this kid,_ ** White said sharply. 

**You do realize you're like, almost twice his age,** Yellow added.

**_Not to mention he's pure as the driven snow,_ ** White added.  **_Do you_ ** **really** **_want to be responsible for tarnishing that brilliance?_ **

“I didn't say anything, guys, just lay off,” Deadpool growled, heading back downstairs. “I’m trying to think.”

**_Please, like_ ** **that's** **_ever going to happen._ ** You could practically feel the eyeroll in White’s text. 

**Deadpool and thinking are pretty much oxymorons,** Yellow agreed. 

“Look, will you shut up! I’m trying to figure out what sort of fruit basket to get him!”

**_Ohhh_ ** , White was momentarily chastised. 

**That's easy! Get him some apples,** Yellow chimed in, and then White just  _ had _ to jump in too. 

**_Definitely something seasonal,_ ** White decided. 

**Nothing’s seasonal in winter!** Yellow protested. 

**_Apples are!_ ** White responded. 

**I already suggested apples!**

Yellow and White began to bicker about whose idea the apple basket  _ really  _ was. Wade groaned. It was going to be a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hopefully I can keep updating this, I've really enjoyed writing this last chapter and I hope to keep writing more in the next few weeks but...well... we all know my track record... anyway thanks for reading!


	7. A Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finally airs his grievances. Deadpool is not moved in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **So, warnings:** noncon (mention), disregard of personal boundaries, insensitivity, and general awkwardness (because Deadpool).

Peter shut the door behind himself with a sigh, dropping his backpack in the center of the room before plopping down on his love seat with a sigh, flinging his forearm over his eyes and biting back a groan. He felt violated six ways from Sunday and was so upset he wasn't even sure where to begin contemplating his ever-growing list of grievances.

As if agreeing to taco Tuesday hadn't been _enough_ for him to stress about, Peter was now seriously considering pimping himself out to a _mercenary_ for _food_. True, they were technically “just” pictures, but he was still _in_ them and knowing that Deadpool was going to be _looking_ at them and… doing… _that_ … was so far beyond what he was comfortable with he couldn’t find the adequate words to express his revulsion. It was slowly dawning on Peter, with some chagrin, that he'd agreed to something he would _never_ have agreed to had the pictures been of anyone other than himself. Hell, he _still_ felt like he was betraying Spider-Man, despite the fact that he and the webbed wonder were the _actually the_ _same person._  

Peter groaned, the sour smell of vomit still wafting off his clothes, despite the rinsing he'd done in the restaurant. _Curse these enhanced senses!_ He thought violently.  Of _course_ the evening had only gone downhill after he’d puked his dinner all over himself and the merc. He was surprised the man hadn't shot him for losing his lunch all over the merc’s shoes. _Then_ , the man had somehow managed to give him those ‘ _oh you poor baby’_ puppy eyes despite the fact that he was wearing a mask. It was awful, embarrassing, and Peter was _still hungry_ because the burgers had come up with the egg rolls and _now_ he was angry about that, too! There was some merc out there in the dead of night probably looking for a freaking wine and cheese basket to leave on his fire escape as a final gesture of his deep and abiding pity for poor, useless, starving Peter Parker.

But there had been something about the way Deadpool had touched him, his broad, leather-clad hand exuding warmth as it rubbed in gentle circles on his back when he’d been vomiting. The way he hadn't shied away from the stench or the mess, hadn't gotten upset about Peter’s foolish decision to gorge himself until he was sick. The way he’d held Peter's hand, even though it was coated in vomit, as he waited for him to finish. It didn't feel like pity at all. It felt like comfort, and Peter hadn't realized how much he _missed_ that tactile comfort until just now. Harry had never been a very huggy person, and now that MJ was dating someone she was more careful about personal space, which meant she and Peter hadn't had a study/snuggle session for almost a year. Peter hadn't been to see Aunt May in several months, either, and he was starting to realize that maybe he was nearly as _touch_ -starved as he was food-starved.

Even knowing what Deadpool was planning to _do_ with those warm hands and photos of Spider-Man behind closed doors wasn't enough to keep Peter from silently hoping the casual touches would continue. As for not-so-casual touches…? Well. Deadpool would have plenty of pictures of Spider-Man to keep him occupied.

Sighing, Peter slowly sat up, moving across the room. He peeled off his clothes and threw them in the hamper before tugging on two pairs of sweats, a shirt and two jackets before rolling himself up in his sleeping bag. He didn't have the energy to stay awake, much less go on patrol. The city would be fine without him for one night… he hoped.

* * *

When Peter’s eyes flickered open the next morning, his eyes found the patch of sunlight usually streaming in his window partially obscured. Something was on the fire escape outside. With a groan, Peter remembered Deadpool had said something about a fruit basket delivery. He groggily peeled one eye fully open and glanced up, only to yelp in surprise and nearly strangle himself in his sleeping bag. Deadpool waved a little from where he sat on the fire escape, _watching Peter sleep_.

Peter gasped, trying to get some air into his lungs, still exhausted but now also furious and feeling extremely violated. With a huff, he wriggled out of his sleeping bag and stalked over to the window, shedding the jackets and one of the pairs of sweatpants as he did so. Deadpool cocked his head, seeming to understand that Peter was upset about something but apparently unable to figure out _why_. Throwing open the window, Peter pointed across the room at his loveseat. “Go. Sit,” he snapped.

Deadpool looked confused, but he did as he was told, slinking past Peter’s bed and into the room to sit on the loveseat. “I brought groceries,” he said, a tad unnecessarily as Peter could _see_ that the merc’s arms were loaded down with several full bags.

“Those aren't all going to fit in my minifridge,” Peter said after a moment. “What happened to the fruit basket?”

Deadpool shrugged. “Couldn't decide on what kind to get so I just bought you a fruit bag instead.” He nodded, indicating one of his many grocery bags.

Peter had been awake less than two minutes and he already wanted to crawl back into bed and pretend this day had never happened. “Why were you _watching me sleep_?” He demanded with a small shudder.

Deadpool shrugged. “I didn't plan it that way, but once I got here your sleeping face was too cute.”

Peter felt his skin crawling. “Okay,” he said weakly, “um…”

“Also, I figured I could make you pancakes!” Deadpool said excitedly, “To make up for that disaster of a dinner last night.  Really, I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier, pancakes are the elixir of life!”

Peter blinked hard. “What.” his tone came out flat and hard, and Deadpool’s enthusiasm was slowly wilting under his sharp gaze.

“I… thought  you might like… to try my world-famous pancakes?” Deadpool tried again, slowly lowering his armful of groceries to the coffee table.

Peter wanted to scream. “No, actually, Deadpool, what I would like is to sleep in peace without a spandex-suited stalker _sitting outside my window watching me sleep.”_ He took a deep breath, and tried to swallow down the anger, but once he started talking he couldn't get it to stop. “I get it, okay? You feel guilty for breaking my camera and I’m obviously not in a great place right now so you think that helping me will somehow absolve you of the guilt you feel,” Deadpool looked like he wanted to say something, but Peter barreled on, “but that's not gonna work, because I've had terrible luck my entire life and it's not going to get any better just because some mercenary decided to make me pancakes!” He panted a little.

“Baby-”

“I am _not_ your baby boy, I do not _want_ your charity, I don't _care_ that you broke my camera, so please just leave me _alone_!” Peter was half-ashamed, half-horrified when his voice cracked on the last word and oh no, he needed to get this out quick before someone turned on the waterworks because he would _not_ cry in front of a cold-blooded killer, he would _not_. “Just accept that you were an agent of bad luck in this instance and _move on_!”

Deadpool shifted uncomfortably, and no, Peter was _not_ done talking. He threw out a hand, indicating that the merc needed to _shut up and listen_.

“The universe has had it in for me since day one and I don't hold you personally responsible for contributing to the living hell that is my life,” Peter told him in a heavy, broken tone, “so just… go, on your merry way, and don't worry about me, about any of this. I don't want your guilt money, I just want to be left alone.” Peter looked away then, panting lightly and loosening fists he hadn't realized he'd been clenching.

“Ya done?” Deadpool asked then, in a tone that hovered between boredom and contempt.

Peter blinked hard. “Yeah,” he whispered then, fighting back hot tears that crept unbidden to the corner of his eyes, “I’m done.”

“Good, because I think we’ve been operating under some misunderstandings,” Deadpool began, “namely, that I even have the _capacity_ to feel guilt, which honestly, I don't. At least, it doesn't happen often.” Deadpool spread his hands. “So why am I here, then? Not because I feel guilty.”

Peter blinked. “Then why…?”

“I’m _intrigued_ , baby boy! You're the size of my pinky finger,” Deadpool wiggled the appendage for emphasis, “and yet you're not the least bit afraid of me, or my capabilities. Honestly it's almost like you have a death wish, and believe me when I say I know a thing or two about those.”

Peter scowled. “I’m not suicidal.”

“Oh, I know, just young and foolish and hotheaded,” Deadpool said, waving a hand dismissively. “Ah, to be young again,” he mused, mostly to himself.

Peter felt possibly more frustrated than before. “It's not just-”

“Oh right, I forgot, ‘ _poor me, Wah Wah Wah, my mommy probably didn't love me and I have daddy issues’_ ,” Deadpool made a little hand puppet and had it speak in a squeaky voice Peter could only assume was meant to be a mockery of his own voice.

“My parents are dead and I was raised by my aunt and uncle,” Peter said slowly. “Not sure whether or not stalking me revealed that tidbit and you just forgot in your rush to insult me.”

Deadpool tilted his head a little. “Oh shit, your parents are dead,” he said flatly. “Stop the presses, I've got the scoop of the day, local whiny millennial places the root of his problems squarely in the hands of his dead parents.”

Peter clenched his jaw, feeling his fury lapping at his core like a small flame begging to become a raging inferno. “I don't have to listen to this,” he decided sullenly, turning to grab his backpack. His spider-sense flared moments before a hand clamped down on his hair, tugging his head around to look Deadpool right in the eye.

“Do _not_ walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” Deadpool growled, his low rumble sending shivers of spider-sense crawling up and down Peter’s spine.

He lifted his hands slowly in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Deadpool released his hair, leaving Peter with a smarting scalp, spinning and flopping back down on the loveseat. “Now where was I?”

“I’m a disillusioned millennial child who has no idea what the real world is like?” Peter prompted wearily.

“Well yes, but I don't _think_ that was the point I was trying to make,” Deadpool said, scratching his head. He snapped his fingers then. “Right! Thank you for the help, for _once_.” He turned to Peter, who was standing awkwardly in the middle of his apartment, backpack lying next to him on the floor. “I’m not here out of some misplaced sense of _guilt_ , I wanna get in your pants.” He winced then. “Was I not supposed to say that aloud?”

Peter was getting reeeeeal tired of Deadpool and his creepy stalker come-ons. “If that's what you want, let me make this really simple for you: I. Will not. Have sex. With you.” He pointed to the door. “Now that we've cleared that up, get out.” after a moment, he gestured to the window, too. “You can even use the window, since you seem prefer it to an actual _door_.”

Deadpool was shaking his head slowly, “I mean that's why I _first_ decided to look you up. Also because a taco promise should never be taken lightly.”

Peter threw his arms up in exasperation. “Then why are you here _now_?”

Deadpool reclined back against Peter’s loveseat. “Because you fascinate me,” he answered. “...and I’m still hoping you might let me fuck you.”

Peter blinked hard. “What part of ‘no’ is unclear to you?”

Deadpool shrugged. “Just the n,” he started rifling through the grocery bags. “Also the o.” He plunked a bottle of 100% pure maple syrup on the coffee table, turning to face Peter. “So,” he said cheekily, “pancakes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BEFORE ANYONE OBJECTS --**  
>  this chapter ends mid-scene to facilitate a POV shift. Please don't judge Wade's final words in this chapter too harshly, I promise it isn't as bad as it sounds. The way I write Wade, he often says things in a way that make sense to him but are often misinterpreted or taken poorly by people around him. So _please_ try not to judge him too harshly from Peter's POV...  
>  Thank you to all my readers, I truly appreciate all the comments and support! It's so motivational for me to see that other people love this story as much as I do!  
> Hopefully I'll have another chapter up before long. Thanks~!


	8. A Delicious Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool explains things and makes pancakes. Peter responds a bit more favorably, given time to grow accustomed to the mercenary's unwelcome presence.

Peter seemed to deflate a little more with each passing second. Wade figured it probably had something to do with being hungry, since the kid’s eyes seemed to be bouncing between Deadpool and the maple syrup.

 **_It probably also has something to do with you implying that you don't understand, or at least hold in distaste, the concept of “consent” as a necessary precursor to having sex,_ ** White added.

“It's not that I don't think consent is important,” Deadpool argued, “I just think that a ‘no’ can be ignored as long as it's still possible for the other party to refuse in another way,” he explained, rummaging in the shopping bag, looking for pancake ingredients.

 **_Really._ ** White did not sound convinced.

“Yes, really!” Deadpool insisted, setting some eggs and a bag of flour on the coffee table. “For instance, just because I _make_ pancakes doesn't mean anyone has to eat them!” he frowned a little. “Now, if I _force-fed_ them to someone, _that_ would be a violation. But just making pancakes doesn't mean he’s being _forced_ to eat them.” he scooped up all the ingredients in his arms, lugging them over to the counter.

 **_So you don't think that hearing an older, physically powerful, mentally unstable man say that ‘no’ means nothing to him would be concerning if it were you?_ ** White demanded.

 **Ouch, when you put it like that, it does sound pretty bad,** Yellow chimed in. **You probably scared the kid again. Good job.**

“Guys, I’m trying to find a bowl for mixing pancakes,” Deadpool said irritably, tugging open the cupboard under the sink. Nothing. “Why don't you quit it with the sarcasm and help?”

“You could ask me,” Peter said exasperatedly, pushing past Deadpool and digging into the dish drainer before practically beaning him with a large(ish) plastic bowl.

 **_Don't look now but I think the kid’s mad at us,_ ** White said.

“What was your first hint?” Deadpool muttered, taking the bowl without further comment.

Peter stood there after Wade relieved him of the bowl, shoulders heaving with each breath, his whole body practically screaming “barely suppressed aggression”. Considering the kid was waifish and at least a head shorter than Deadpool, this body language had Wade’s perception of Petey hovering between “comical” and “cute”.

The kid continued to glower without saying anything, so Deadpool busied himself with the pancakes. He’d made the recipe often enough that he could eyeball it.  A small mountain of flour, some sugar, a pinch of salt, a bit of baking powder, oil, milk, eggs… He realized he didn't have anything to stir the batter with. “Whisk?” he asked.

“No whisk,” Peter replied sullenly.

“Spoon then,” Deadpool said.

Peter dug through the cup holding his silverware, the utensils clattering loudly. He stuck the spoon in Deadpool’s face, nearly taking out an eye in the process. “Spoon,” he told the merc, which was actually pretty helpful since Wade’s eyes crossed trying to focus on the utensil.

 **I don't like his attitude,** Yellow complained.

 **_He is being pretty ungrateful, considering we rarely go to the effort of cooking,_ ** White added.

“That'll do nicely,” Deadpool ignored the boxes, plucking the utensil from Peter’s hand. He began vigorously mixing the ingredients, before glancing over his shoulder. “Hey Petey-pie, you got a frying pan or something to cook these with?”

Peter muttered under his breath, but found Deadpool a pan and stuck it on the hotplate. “What temperature?” he asked, grudgingly.

“Medium,” Wade answered brightly, glad the kid was starting to engage him again. He wasn't a big fan of sullen silence. Or silence in general. There was a _reason_ he ran his mouth almost constantly.

Peter turned the heat on and stepped back to watch him work. Wade didn't miss the way the photographer's eyes kept sliding down, taking in his broad chest and muscular arms, so he turned his pancake-mixing into something of a show, finding the best angle to show off his bulging biceps as he beat the batter. After a few minutes of this, Peter licked his lips unconsciously, and Wade had to turn to face the counter or risk showing off another bulging part of his anatomy.

 **_I think you've reached a new low,_ ** White informed him, **_Pancake flirting? Really?_ **

**Pancakes can be romantic!** Yellow argued.

“Yeah!” Wade agreed.

“Sorry, I didn't catch that.” Peter seemed more relaxed now, though he still had his arms folded defensively over his chest. His eyes were warmer now, though, his gaze bright and clear.

Rather than explaining, Wade changed the subject. “Pancakes are almost ready,” he told Peter, pouring some batter into the frying pan with a grin.

Peter sighed. “I'm not…” he paused, eyes flicking over to Wade, a hint of something in his eyes. He seemed to be remembering something. “I don't _want_ to be hungry,” he clarified. “I'd rather just eat my toast.”

 **_He remembered you don't like it when he lies,_ ** White commented.

 **But he also said he doesn't want our pancakes!** Yellow yelped indignantly.

“Well, okay,” Deadpool said, trying very hard not to feel insulted. “You don't have to eat the pancakes, but they're just gonna mold eventually if you don't eat them.” He shrugged. “You don't seem like the type to let perfectly good food go to waste.”

The muscles in Peter’s jaw jumped slightly. He exhaled loudly through his nose, before spinning on his heel and walking away. For a moment, Deadpool suspected he was going back to bed, until he heard the kid plop down on the loveseat, followed by the light whir of small fans and the clack-clack of computer keys.

 _Spidey pictures!_ Wade realized excitedly, flipping the first pancake-- a perfect golden brown, he noted with satisfaction.

A small mountain of pancakes later, Wade piled one plate high, placing two on a second plate. “Hey Petey, you like maple syrup?” he called, sticking a fork in the center of each stack. The fork in the short stack listed to one side.

Peter made a noise, though Wade couldn't be sure if it was in the affirmative or negative. He shrugged -- who didn't like maple syrup? -- and doused both piles in a generous serving of syrup, a small lake forming at the bottom of the taller pile.

He sauntered over, drawing up short when he realized Peter was seated in the center of the loveseat, legs spread wide, working on his computer. He didn't even look up when Deadpool approached.

Wade felt that same sense of awkward _taking up too much space_ , that whisper of _you don't belong here_ slowly permeating the atmosphere. He cleared his throat pointedly.

Peter looked up. “Yes?” his eyes dropped to the two plates of pancakes. “Oh.” Several long seconds passed before his eyes widened and he scrambled to scoot over, shutting his laptop with a clack and stowing it beside the loveseat. “Oh! Sorry,” he apologized as he moved. “That was fast,” he added, sounding surprised.

“That's what _she_ said,” Deadpool smirked, dropping down next to Peter.

 **_Okay so this time let’s not almost shoot him and then run off with his food for no reason,_ ** White suggested pointedly. **_Especially since the night ended with us taking a nap and waking up cranky._ **

Yellow added, **At least Spidey was there when we woke up.**

Peter was eyeing the pancakes. Wade passed the plate with two cakes to Peter before digging into his giant stack. “Take your time,” he suggested, “you don't wanna get sick again,” he explained, hesitating slightly before cramming his mouth full of pancake.

Wade had noticed that both times before, Peter had been bothered by the fact that Wade wasn't eating. So as much as Wade didn't want to risk exposing his less-than-yummy features to the cute kid sitting next to him, he figured it was only fair that he swallowed a little pride of his own. That being said, he was very careful to time his mask-lifts, syncing them with whenever Peter’s gaze was otherwise occupied. He would raise the pancake and his mask at the same time to economize the amount of time spent with his mask rolled up, lifting it in a way that hid most of his face behind his hand.  

Peter, meanwhile, was staring at the plate the merc had handed him like it was poisoned. Sighing,  he took the sagging fork out of the center of the stack and pried a small bite off the outside of one of the two cakes, tentatively placing it in his mouth. His eyes widened, then fluttered shut as he made a noise of appreciation.

**Imagine what he’d sound like with his lips wrapped around your-**

“Let's stop there,” Deadpool interrupted Yellow quickly, though of course the mental image floated through his mind anyway. He swallowed hard, his pancakes almost sticking in his throat on their way down.

Peter looked at Deadpool, slowly taking the fork out of his mouth and swallowing before saying “Pardon?” quietly.

Wade blinked. “What?”

“You said to stop?” Peter sounded confused. Considering how hard Wade had been pushing him to eat, he figured Peter had a right to his befuddlement.

“Wasn't talking to you,” Deadpool assured him before smirking. “So, you like the pancakes?”

Peter bobbed his head excitedly before returning to the plate and forking a larger bite. “They're really fluffy,” he said, turning the fork over to look at his bite before popping it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. He looked at Wade in amazement. “And they taste _great_.”

“Better than sex,” Deadpool declared, before frowning a little. “Well, almost,” he amended.

Peter shrugged awkwardly, apparently not willing to cast a vote in either direction of the “better or not better than sex” debate. Instead, he ate a few more bites.

Deadpool was about halfway through his pile when He realized Peter had stopped eating and was staring at him. “What?” he demanded irritably, knowing he wouldn't be able to take another bite until the kid looked away.

“You're actually eating,” Peter said, amazed.

“Yeah, so?” Deadpool couldn't help the defensiveness creeping into his tone. Peter didn't _sound_ particularly judgmental, but Wade was more used to negative attention than positive attention, especially since he craved _any_ sort of attention, and often settled for whatever he could get.

“I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier!” Peter sounded disgusted.

Wade’s heart began to pound.

 **Here it comes,** Yellow said ominously.

 **_You knew this was too good to last,_ ** White added.

 **Get ready for rejection, hamburger-face,** Yellow told Wade with a mixture of spite and resignation.

Deadpool tried _really_ hard to ignore the boxes, turning to Peter. “Figure out what?” he asked in a small voice.

“You have a secret identity!” Peter exclaimed. “ _That’s_ why you avoided eating before! You didn't want to lift your mask!”

 **That was anticlimactic,**  Yellow commented.

 **_The kid’s even half right,_ ** White commented.

Deadpool just nodded slowly.

“You could have just told me,” Peter said then, a crabby tone creeping into his voice. “I can be discreet. All you had to do was _ask_ me to look away.” He gazed earnestly at Deadpool. “I understand the need for privacy, to keep some things hidden, disassociated from the mask.” He shrugged awkwardly, looking away. “It's why I have no idea what Spider-Man looks like. He asked me not to look, so I never have.” He turned back to Deadpool then. “I know we’ve just met, but…” he gestured weakly. “You _can_ trust me. At least with that much. I won't look. If you don't believe me, ask Spider-Man.” Peter turned his gaze to his pancakes for a moment, before quickly shoveling a large bite in his mouth.

Deadpool blinked, hard. _Just like that…?_ he wondered, dazed by the prospect of a person not only knowing but actually _respecting_ his boundaries, especially when so few people even bothered to entertain the notion that Deadpool _had_ boundaries. “Okay,” he said then, “I would prefer it if you didn't look.”

Peter turned his gorgeous face away, but not before Wade caught sight of the beginnings of a smile. “That’s better,” he said.

Wade still held one hand over the side of his face as he ate, not quite ready to trust this kid but willing to see how far Petey would go.

 **_I have money on him peeking sometime today,_ ** White scoffed.

 **I’m going to settle for an optimistic ‘by the third date’,** Yellow decided.

“It's not a date, though, remember?” Wade muttered.

“Pardon?” Peter turned his head slightly, lifting a hand to the side of his face so he could turn a bit more without actually seeing anything.

Wade tugged his mask down. “You can look,” he told Peter. He glanced at the kid’s pancake plate, still mostly full. “You still hungry?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter chuckled, “I definitely am. I just don't want a repeat of last night.”

“That's why I only gave you two,” Wade explained.

“They're still huge,” Peter protested, spearing a piece, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing before he spoke again. “I’m not used to eating so much.”

Deadpool glanced between his small mountain and Peter’s two cakes in disbelief. “You're kidding,” he said. “What have you been living on, enough to feed a house sparrow?”

Peter pursed his lips a little. “Look,” he said carefully, “I get that you're trying to help, I really do,” he sighed heavily, “but when you talk to me like that it just sounds like an accusation and all it does is make me mad.” He set the pancakes down (which had Wade slapping himself internally) and looked the mercenary in the white eye-shaped circles of his mask. “I know I don't have enough to eat, okay? I’m doing my best to make ends meet. Treating me like I don't _know_ how bad this is makes me feel frustrated and incompetent. And I already feel that way because I _can't feed myself_ on my current salary.” Peter ducked his head. “Do you...understand?” he asked weakly, and surprisingly, Wade did.

“It's not really fair of me to criticize you for things that are out of your control,” he said softly. Pete nodded quickly, before grabbing the plate of pancakes and eating a few more bites in the silence that followed.

“I’m gonna eat now,” Wade said awkwardly, and Peter turned his face away. The two finished the remainder of their pancakes in companionable silence.

After spending far too long studying the nape of Peter’s neck and admiring the way Peter’s hair seemed to point in every direction at once, Wade cleared his throat and said, “Okay.”

Peter turned back around, a small smile dancing on his lips. “So,” he said almost playfully, reaching for his laptop, “About those pictures of Spider-Man…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this scene just kept dragging on and on, so there's going to be a _third_ POV switch before it all wraps up. These guys can't seem to do anything quickly...
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	9. A Hurried Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Actually parting ways on good terms with minimal casualties? What a concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry the chapter's so short...)

Peter wasn't sure when he stopped feeling angry at Deadpool. He figured it was somewhere between the merc standing over Peter’s loveseat, shuffling awkwardly while holding two plates of pancakes nearly dwarfed by his large hands, and when he’d been desperately stuffing his face whenever Peter looked away. At first, Peter hadn't thought much of it. After four bites, though, he concluded that Deadpool was _waiting_ until he looked away to take a bite. After that, he tested his hypothesis and sure enough, each time he looked away, the merc shoveled another massive bite down.

Peter realized in that moment that he’d been unfair to Deadpool. The merc was obviously trying to do what he thought was right and make things up to Peter in his own screwy, backwards, morally-grey sort of way. And Peter had responded by pressuring him to eat the first time he tried to give Peter food. He was only now realizing that maybe the man wore a mask for the _same reason_ Peter did - anonymity. Anonymity that Peter had threatened with his pointed stares and insistence. As if that hadn't been enough, Deadpool had tried to apologize for his reaction to Peter’s (he was now realizing) aggressive behavior, and how had Peter responded? By puking all over his shoes.

And _still_ Deadpool had come back. Peter refused to believe he’d gone to all this trouble for a few photos of Spider-Man. So why? He didn't buy Deadpool’s crude come-ons -- not really, any way, so there had to be another reason. If the mercenary was anything like Peter, it was probably loneliness that drove him to continually engage with Peter. Peter didn't really consider himself _great_ company, but he knew most heroes pretty much avoided or ignored the loudmouth mercenary even more than they avoided Spider-Man. (Which was saying something, because while Spider-Man was something of a lone wolf, it was only really half by choice, and half because it seemed no one else would have him.) Really, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility for Deadpool to follow Peter around simply because Peter hadn't chased him off yet.

Peter frowned then, because he wondered if it was even possible for someone like mild-mannered Peter Parker to chase off an irrepressible personality like Deadpool. He supposed Spider-Man could always “intervene” on Peter’s behalf, but he wasn't sure how closely he wanted his alter ego to be connected to his everyday life. And thinking of Spider-Man brought with it a whole host of additional concerns. Deadpool might not be satisfied with mere pictures of Spider-Man. What if he wanted to _hang out_ with Spider-Man the way he did with Peter? What if he started stalking Spider-Man - or worse, Peter? What if he learned Peter’s deepest, darkest secret? What if-?

“Baby boy, you're white as a sheet,” Deadpool commented, his voice matter-of-fact but tinged with a hint of concern. “Something wrong?” He moved to get up, “You gonna be sick again?”

Peter shook his head slowly, trying to focus on breathing as his pounding heart began to slow. He rested his trembling hands on his laptop, still shut and lying across his knees. “I just had another, you know,” he felt his face begin to burn, “anxiety attack.”

Deadpool cocked his head slowly. “...why?”

“I’m worried,” Peter admitted. “I swore to keep Spidey’s details personal - our meeting place, his phone number, all of that stuff.” Peter twisted his hands back and forth nervously before lifting his gaze to look Deadpool in the eye. “I’m afraid you might follow me, or tap my phone, or…” Peter trailed off with a shrug, eyes falling back to his lap. “I don't want to betray his trust,” Peter whispered, “and selling these photos to you, knowing what you want them for, it already feels too much like a betrayal…”

A large leather-clad hand settled over Peter’s twining ones. “Peter,” Deadpool said, his voice rough yet surprisingly gentle, “If you're not comfortable selling these pictures, why don't you just ask Spidey if you can sell them? He must know about the Daily Whatsit-”

“Daily Bugle,” Peter corrected automatically, eyes fixed on Deadpool’s broad hand that nearly encased his two hands combined.

“Whatever. Point is, he knows you sell these pictures, right?” Deadpool squeezed Peter’s hands lightly with his larger one. “So just ask if it's okay to sell to someone else.”

Peter took a shuddering breath. “And if he says no?”

Deadpool made a sad sound before sighing dramatically, lifting his hand away from Peter’s to place it against his forehead in a mock faint. “I suppose I must resort to commissioning a few hentai artists to fulfill my wildest dreams in extremely graphic, full-color illustrations.”

Peter blinked hard. He didn't want to think about Japanese comic-book porn being drawn about himself, _ever_. Honestly, photos were infinitely preferable when the merc’s alternative was commissioning weaboo porn featuring your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

“I'll make sure he knows his options,” Peter told Deadpool weakly.

“You do that,” Deadpool said agreeably. “Oh and Petey?”

Peter glanced up at Deadpool curiously. “Yeah?”

“I won't follow you,” Deadpool promised, “if you tell me not to. Unless I think you're in danger. Or being unreasonable, or-” Deadpool cut himself off. “Maybe let me know when you're meeting with Spidey so I know not to follow you.”

Peter’s face twisted a little. He wasn't sure he trusted Deadpool that much. What if the merc was close enough to see Spidey, right before getting a message from ‘Peter’? “How about you text me to tell me whenever you're following me and I'll tell you whether or not to stop?” Peter suggested.

After some consideration, Deadpool nodded slowly. “It's a deal,” he said, extending one of his large hands.

Peter took the hand, shaking it firmly, his own hand nearly swallowed by the mercenary’s. “Thanks,” he said, “I feel better now.”

Deadpool seemed surprised to hear this, tilting his head and looking at Peter strangely. “You do realize I could be lying to you,” he said slowly.

“I thought you didn't like lying,” Peter shot back. “I’m trusting you, Deadpool. Don't let me down.”

“I won't,” Deadpool promised in a strangled tone.

Peter glanced at his watch, and nearly flew off the couch. “Shit!” he leapt to his feet.

Deadpool jumped up too, katanas drawn, glancing around like he was ready for a fight. Absently, Peter noted that he might need to start instituting a “Leave your weapons at the door/window” policy when Deadpool dropped by, but a larger part of him was panicking because he was _late_ and couldn't risk hurrying to school by taking the Spider-Man route, not with Deadpool _right here_.

“What's wrong?” Deadpool was glancing around the room, preparing for an assault.

Peter had shed his sweats and was digging through his pile of clothes to try and find a half-clean pair of jeans. “I’m late!” he exclaimed, yanking a pair of jeans from the bottom of the pile and struggling to pull them up over the boxers he'd slept in, promising himself he’d change them later when he had the time. He tore off his t-shirt, sniffing another shirt and deciding it wasn't _terrible_ before pulling it over his head, knocking his glasses askew. He grabbed his backpack, glad he’d kept it packed. He knew he had a spare suit tucked into the bottom of the bag, and figured he’d find somewhere to change later. Doctor Connors was going to _kill_ him if he was late to class. Normally college professors didn't care, but this was a special course with very limited enrollment, which meant that for this class, there was none of the faceless anonymity that served him well in his other classes.

Peter yanked on two mismatched socks, nearly falling over in the process. Deadpool had re-sheathed his katanas and appeared to be on the phone with someone while he watched Peter run around the room getting ready. Peter didn't have the time to wonder who Deadpool could be calling now or why. He slung his backpack over his shoulder with a grunt and crossed the room, heading for the door.

“I guess you can let yourself out,” Peter told Deadpool breathlessly, grabbing his keys and cramming his feet into his shoes, “Thanks for the pancakes.” he glanced at his watch again, wincing. “I gotta go.”

Deadpool nodded slowly, watching Peter leave.

Peter tore down the stairs three at a time, calling on his enhanced agility to ensure he didn't face-plant at the bottom of each flight of steps. He scrambled outside, just as a taxi pulled up to the curb. The driver peeked out just as Peter ran past, calling, “Mister Peter Parker?”

Peter stopped, turning slowly. He couldn't have heard that right.  Behind him, Deadpool  wandered out of the alley, having apparently made use of his preferred point of entry. “Yeah, that's us,” he called, popping open the back door of the cab and looking at Peter.

Peter felt like the world was tilting. “You called a _cab?_ ”

“Midtown University,” Deadpool told the driver, before sliding across the seat and glancing out at Peter. “Well? You coming?”

Peter slid in the seat beside Deadpool, buckling his seatbelt as the taxi pulled away from the curb with a screech.  “North campus,” he told the driver, before turning to Deadpool. “You didn't have to-”

“I wanted to,” Deadpool interrupted. “Now sit back and _relax_ , Baby boy.”

Peter sat back, glancing over at the spandex-clad mercenary with interest. He frowned. “You're not wearing a seatbelt.”

Deadpool laughed. “There's nothing this car can do to me that would keep me down for very long, Petey.” He buckled his seatbelt anyway.

Peter scowled a little as he considered Deadpool’s response. “It would still hurt, wouldn't it?” he asked.

Deadpool shrugged a little in response to this. “Pain is relative,” he told Peter. “Trust me, I've been through worse.”

Peter didn't particularly like his answer, but decided not to press the issue. He hugged his backpack on his lap, checking his watch. Fifteen minutes…

“Whatchu got in that bag?” Deadpool asked. “Books?”

Peter shook his head slowly. “Notebooks, lab journals,” he answered, “Labcoat.”  _My suit._

“Ooh, science?” Deadpool leaned closer. “You gonna be a doctor, Petey? That's sexy.”

“Biochemist, actually,” Peter tightened his grip on his backpack fractionally. “Or microbiologist. I'd like to do some sort of microbiological research.” He shrugged. “Or maybe engineering? I took an intro class for fun last quarter.” He sighed resignedly, gazing at his hands, still curled around the bag. “It was hard enough to convince the scholarship committee to let me double major, I doubt they would agree to a _third_ major.”

Deadpool whistled lowly. “Scholarship? So what, you're some kind of genius?”

Peter chuckled in a vaguely self-deprecating manner. “I wish,” he said. “Maybe I wouldn't need to study so much.”

Deadpool didn't seem convinced by this, muttering something along the lines of “I could study all _day_ and I still wouldn't understand _half_ ” as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

“Midtown University, North Campus,” The cab driver drawled.

Peter clutched his bag a little tighter, turning to look at Deadpool. “Thank you for the ride…” he started awkwardly, glancing at the fare total, wishing he had even half that amount in his wallet right now.

“I’m not expecting you to pay a single dime, Petey,” Deadpool told him exasperatedly, “The cab was my idea. Don't worry about the fare. Go make new scientific breakthroughs.”

“I'll settle for passing the class,” Peter replied, pushing open the door and stepping out before glancing back down at Deadpool. “Thank you,” he said again, flashing a quick smile before shutting the door and hoisting his backpack over one shoulder and running for the lab, glancing at his watch again. Five minutes. He’d actually been able to eat breakfast _and_ he was going to be on time! Things were finally starting to look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm so glad you seem to be enjoying the story so far! I've been pretty busy with another project in the works (that I may or may not be announcing in the next month or so, though tragically, it is not spideypool.), but I am still determined to complete this story if it kills me (hopefully it won't, lol). 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your continued readership and kind comments!


	10. A Violent Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool has a job to do. Spidey makes a surprise appearance. Weapons are discharged. Flirting happens. All in a day's work...

Deadpool sat breathless in the back of the cab. _That smile_ , he thought weakly. His insides felt all scrambled.

 **_Get a grip,_ ** White griped. **_It's not like he would ever be interested in you anyway. You're old enough to be his father._ **

“Well, yes, but only if I was virile and sexually active in my teenage years!” Wade said defensively.

 ** _You_** **were** ** _virile and sexually active in your teenage years,_** White reminded Wade with a snort. **_Very much so. On both counts._**

“Yes, but…” Wade trailed off weakly, able to recognize that this was one battle he had absolutely no chance of winning. “...whatever.”

“Mister Pool?” The cabbie was peering back into the seat. “Where to next?”

“Well, Dopinder,” Wade said, unbuckling his seatbelt, “First I think I'll come join you in the front,” he said, then began to awkwardly crawl up from the back, eventually managing to situate himself in the front seat. He glanced at the cab driver, who had turned out to be an incredibly loyal ally ever since Deadpool had hired him some great legal counsel and threatened a few parties to ensure his speedy release from custody. “Now,” he began, “let’s head downtown. I've got a job.”

 **_What’s this?_ ** White gasped in mock-surprise. **_An actual job? Instead of wasting all your time stalking the starving scientist -slash- periodical photographer known as Peter Parker?_ **

**You phrased it that way just for the alliteration,** Yellow accused White.

“Yeah, and it was actually pretty impressive,” Wade admitted grudgingly.

“The usual place, Mister Pool?” Dopinder asked, as the taxi began weaving its way into a decidedly more seedy neighborhood.

“Yeah, Dopinder, that'll do nicely,” Deadpool agreed.

The taxi rolled to a stop, and Wade climbed out, tossing a “thanks” over his shoulder.

“Anytime, Mister Pool!” Dopinder called back before peeling off with a screech of tires.

Wade cracked his knuckles and stretched lightly before retrieving his cell phone and dialing a familiar number. “Yo Weasel,” he said, making his way down the alley, “What's this you mentioned about a job…?”

* * *

Wade didn't enjoy waiting. It made him...twitchy. At least he wouldn't be waiting long. Or, he _hoped_ not. Wade sighed, although the full lip-flapping effect of the explosive puff of air was muffled by his mask and the thick scar tissue that marred his face. He was lying on a piece of gravel that was digging uncomfortably into his ribcage. He wasn't sure if it would be worth the effort to try and remove the offending bit of rock.

 **I thought the guy was going to be here by now,** Yellow griped.

Wade couldn't help but silently agree. He didn't want to alert any possible assailants to his presence, so talking was out for the time being. It was more annoying than the tiny rock lodged between his ribs. Wade wondered if this was what the princess felt like with the pea.

 **_Oh yeah, you're a real princess,_ ** White was unimpressed with this line of thinking. **_All those Disney movies are about princesses as ugly and fucked up as you._ **

Wade opened his mouth to retaliate, remembered he was on a job, and snapped his mouth closed. He wanted to _get_ this bastard. So he would _not_ screw this one up.

 **You could just snipe him and be done with it,** Yellow suggested. **Go get pizza, maybe take the rest of the day off...**

 **_You know that's not gonna happen._ ** White told Yellow matter-of-factly. **_Sickos like this guy deserve the full Deadpool special: pants-shitting fear followed by a slow and painful death so the creep can think long and hard about what he's done to deserve this._ **

Part of Deadpool wanted to entertain that scenario in excruciating detail, but decided he would just wing it today. No need to fantasize about un-aliving an asshole who richly deserved it when he'd have the opportunity to actually take him out, nice and slow, as soon as the creep exited the den of crooks he was currently doing business with.

Hell, Deadpool wouldn't mind going in guns blazing and taking them _all_ out, but he was only being paid for the one, so he'd just make sure this bastard’s fate served as a pointed message to the rest of the people in his network. You don't traffic and molest kids - much less distribute disgusting photos of those kids - unless you're hoping for a visit from a very displeased, knife-happy Daddy Pool.

But before he could impress upon his mark exactly why selling children into sexual slavery was a _despicable_ practice, he had to wait. And Deadpool _hated_ waiting. Fortunately for everyone involved (except, perhaps, his mark), it seemed his waiting was finally over.

And yeah, his mark was _running_ away from the place rather than the casual saunter he’d entered with, but Deadpool couldn't care less about why. He was ready for some _action_! With practiced precision, he buried a throwing knife in the back of the mark’s knee and the creep went down, hard.

 **Nice shot!** Yellow crowed.

 **_I've seen better,_ ** White said, trying a little too hard to sound unimpressed.

Deadpool leapt from his perch, landing with a slight ankle roll - that would heal up in a few seconds, so Deadpool chose to walk it off, stalking towards his mark with the slow glide of a predator looking forward to taking his time.

The mark rolled himself over and began scrambling backwards, his injured leg dragging uselessly behind him. “Oh god,” he babbled, “oh god oh god, I’m sorry, oh god,” he lifted both hands, wrists together, in a sort of plea. “Please, Spider-Man, I'll go in peacefully, I didn't mean to run like that-”

Deadpool ignored the Spider-Man thing - what was the point in correcting a dead man walking? Or, well, _not-_ walking? As he stalked closer,  Wade began casually tossing photos one-by-one in the mark’s face. They fluttered down to lay on his chest, his lap, the ground around him. “I think you forgot something back there,” Deadpool rumbled. “These are yours, aren’t they?” The photos were of children, dozens of children, in varying states of health and undress. Explicit photos had areas that had been blacked out with sharpie, but the evidence was clear.

The man saw the photos and blanched. “Okay, Spider-Man, yeah, I was into some shady things alright? But I swear, I can do better, I-” his voice cut off in a strangled choke as Deadpool stepped down on his throat, heavy boot taking the despicable man to the ground, hard.

Deadpool fondled a dagger, standing over the sorry excuse for a human being currently squirming under his boot. Once was one thing, but twice… he wanted a little credit for his _very original_ suit idea. That he definitely hadn't gotten from a blind woman. “I hate to break it to you,” he said darkly, “But I’m not Spider-Man, and you’re not going to prison.”

The mark’s eyes widened, filling with hope. That wasn't going to last long. Deadpool looked at his mark, the white eyes of his mask boring into the eyes of his victim. “I have something _much_ more painful in mind for fucking scum like you.” Deadpol waited for the mark’s eyes to widen again, this time in fear, before removing his boot and bending down to pick up one of the photos. “Do you know this kid’s name?” he asked lowly, putting it in the creep’s face.

His mark swallowed hard, shaking his head. He started scooting backwards again.

Deadpool’s voice was as cold and brittle as ice. “Her name was Jessalyn,” he told him coldly, stabbing a knife into the creep’s other knee before rising slowly, drawing his pistol as the mark screamed and renewed his efforts to crawl away. “Try to run,” he told the mark, “and I shoot you. Not in the head, that's too good for the likes of you. In the gut. So you'll bleed out nice and slow while I finish what I started.” Deadpool shrugged. “Or you can stay here with me and think about what you've done, the lives you've destroyed, the innocents you've broken... _without_ getting shot in the guts.” Deadpool leaned down, picking up another picture. “Do you know him?” he asked, just shy of congenial.

The mark managed to go from a scream to pained moans, panting heavily. He looked closely at the photo, then shook his head, wide eyes pried open with pain and fear.

Deadpool put a knife in the mark’s thigh this time, roaring, “His name was _Jamie!_ ”

The mark yelled in pain, then swore. “What was that for?” he demanded, a moment of anger before the fear resumed control and he began to shake.

Deadpool was more than happy to explain why the mark was about to become the latest Deadpool kebab. “Because they're children, not products, and if you can't be bothered to remember their names in life, at least they'll be known in death,” Deadpool hissed, before pausing. “Oh yes,” he said, sweeping an arm to indicate the photos. “They're dead. All of them. Because of you.” Deadpool leaned in then, gripping the mark’s throat just below the jaw in one hand, trailing a knife down the side of his face. The man whimpered, not daring to move. “I’m the one who was sent to make sure you _pay_. For each and every one of their deaths.”

The mark’s eyes bounced around, taking in the sheer number of photos. Fifteen? Twenty? Thirty? His eyes rolled in sudden terror. _Now_ he understood. This was no ordinary hit. This was _payback._ Deadpool re-sheathed his knife, still gripping the man's throat, finding another photo. “What's her name?” he rumbled.

The mark shook his head weakly. Deadpool released his throat, finding yet another knife, still holding the photo before his mark’s eyes. He carved a lazy line down the mark’s collarbone, blood welling up behind the slice of the knife. He enjoyed the way his mark tried to slow the heaves of his chest as he gasped for breath, not wanting to make the knife dig deeper. “Nina,” Deadpool whispered. He sounded unhinged, his voice dripping with sultry undertones, like he was seducing the man, not slowly slaughtering him. Deadpool lifted the next photo, knife at the ready. “Who is this?”

The mark tried to remember, but after a long moment he slumped weakly, shaking his head. The merc raised his knife.

“Deadpool!” someone shouted from behind, “What are you doing?”

Deadpool froze, rising to his feet and slowly turning around. Spider-Man stood in the alley, shoulders rising and falling with the breaths he was gulping down. His suit sported several small tears - close calls with bullets, it looked like. He was standing a few yards off, feet planted wide, head cocked a little to the side, probably wondering what Deadpool was doing here.

“Oh, just catching up with an old pal,” Deadpool replied with forced cheer. Usually seeing Spidey was a dream come true, but he was on a job and in the headspace of someone who wanted a dirty, depraved man to pay for his despicable acts. This was not “happy Spidey” time, this was “choke the fucking pedophile with his own fucking dick ‘til he turns purple” time.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Spidey was moving closer, “Is he _bleeding?_ Are those _knives?_ ” He whirled on Deadpool. “What the hell is going on here?”

Deadpool spread his hands, which may have looked less threatening if he hadn't _still_ been holding the knife and photo. It was the photo, however, that caught Spidey’s attention.

“What is that?” he asked, moving closer, noticing the photos scattered on the ground too. As he neared, he was able to make out the subject matter of the photos. “What are _those_?” Spider-Man corrected himself darkly.

“They're just a small portion of his personal collection,” Deadpool explained, making no effort to hide the disgust in his tone.

“Oh my god,” Spider-Man said again, sounding far less incredulous and far more nauseous.

“Yep,” Deadpool said, sheathing the knife and drawing a handgun, firing back behind himself without looking. The mark had been trying to edge away while the two spandex-clad individuals were chatting. Deadpool _had_ warned him about trying to run… The mark screamed bloody murder. So dramatic. It wasn't even that _bad_ , Deadpool had avoided anything major or likely to kill him quickly.

“ _Oh my_ **_god!_ ** ” Spidey shrieked, his voice reaching previously unknown octaves. “You _shot_ him!”

“I told him I would shoot him if he tried to run,” Deadpool explained. “I gotta keep my promises.”

“He's not going _anywhere_ with two busted knees!” Spider-Man protested. “Oh my _god_ , Deadpool!”

“Look, Spidey, just walk away,” Deadpool said. “He's mine.”

“This isn't a game of ‘finders keepers’, Deadpool,” Spider-Man said, voice dropping from ‘operatic’ to ‘boring preachy’. Ugh. “He's a human being.”

“Agree to disagree,” Deadpool replied glibly, before adding in a low voice, “No _human_ would do what this man did to innocent children.”

Spider-Man paused, then sighed. “That _still_ doesn't give you the right to be judge, jury, and executioner,” he argued.

Deadpool shrugged. “I’m not trying to be judge or jury,” he told Spider-Man. “Just the executioner.” He fired again.

 **Ooh! Right between the eyes! So badass!** Yellow crowed.

 **_Spider-Man probably hates you now._ ** White, ever the pragmatic one, just _had_ to chime in with their two cents’ worth. **_You know how he feels about taking lives._ **

White was probably right, Deadpool decided, eyeing the web-slinger with some concern. Spidey stood there, hands dangling limply, probably in shock.  “You…” he trailed off, sounding strangled. “How could you _do_ that?”

“What, shoot a man between the eyes without looking? Practice. Lots of practice.” Deadpool re-holstered his weapon. “Wanna know what else I've practiced?” he purred seductively, cupping his groin suggestively, just in case the web crawler wasn't following along.

Spidey was shaking his head slowly. “I can't… how can you do things like this,” he gestured agitatedly at Deadpool, who did a little hip thrust before moving his hand back to a more neutral position, “Right after doing something like _that_?!” he pointed at the mark, probably lying prone somewhere behind Deadpool.

Deadpool shrugged in response. “Ever heard of compartmentalization?” he pointed at the mark. “That was that, and this,” he gestured at his groin, “is _this._ ” He threw in another thrust to show Spidey just what he was missing out on.

Spidey didn't seem particularly interested. “Oh my god,” he said again.  

“Look Spidey,” Deadpool said exasperatedly, _Notice my hip thrusts, dammit!_ “The man was a complete and utter piece of shit and he does not deserve anyone's pity, least of all yours. If anything, he’s _lucky_.”

Spider-Man tilted his head, confused. “Lucky? How so?”

Deadpool’s voice dropped into a low growl. “If you hadn't shown up when you did, I would've had him here a lot longer.” Deadool shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the serious timbre of his voice. “I would’ve had him writhing in agony so intense, he wouldn't even know I put the bullet in him - ‘til he felt the sweet relief of **_hell_**.”

Spider-Man seemed properly cowed by this answer.  “Oh.”

“I don't like rapists, Spidey,” Deadpool said, almost too calm. “I don't like abusers. I especially don't like people who deal in the business of _selling humans_.” He felt his voice drop into a low, bass line  rumble. “But I _really hate_ people who do those things to _children_.”

Spider-Man nodded slowly, carefully _not_ looking at the ground behind Deadpool. “You know I strongly disagree with your methods…” he said hesitantly, almost faintly.

“Can't say I'm particularly fond of your catch-and-release method, either,” Deadpool quipped.

Spidey waved the comment aside like a pesky fly as he continued speaking. “...but I see where you're coming from. And I sincerely doubt that me saying anything about it is _really_ going to change your mind.” His words seemed to be giving Wade a free pass, but his tone was filled with a heavy disappointment, which simply wouldn't do.

Deadpool needed to change the somber atmosphere quick, before it bummed him out too. He wiggled his hips a little in the direction of the webbed wonder. “ _Ooh_ Spidey, I can be convinced to change my methods, but it’ll cost you.”

Spidey snorted a little, like he was half-amused, half put off. “Sorry Deadpool, I don't missionary date.”

“Is _that_ what the kids are calling it these days?” Deadpool quipped before responding to Spidey’s assurance that he would not be tapping that anytime soon. “Too bad,” he paused then, contemplating. “Although I wasn't really looking forward to a life of boring ‘good guy’ behavior, even if it _did_ come with an all-access pass to dat _ass_.” Deadpool made a crude gesture indicating exactly what he'd like to do to that ass.

“Even if you _did_ have an all-access pass, what makes you think I’d let _you_ top?” Spider-Man shot back teasingly, and suddenly the air felt too thin because _was Spidey flirting back?_  Spider-Man seemed to realize this could probably be considered flirting right around the time Wade did, because he sputtered a little before finally managing to say, “Anyway, I called the cops before leaving the building, they should be here soon, I gotta go, bye,” slinging a web and _booking_ _it_ outta dodge.

 **_Running away from his feelings, perhaps?_ ** White said, before clarifying. **_I doubt that's the case._ **

**What if he** **_is_ ** **though?** Yellow said wistfully.

“I just got flirted with by Spidey,” Deadpool said, still feeling dazed. “I think I need a nap.”

 **Or a not-nap. Maybe Peter has some pictures for us by now?** Yellow suggested a tad too excitedly.

“Is this about Spidey or Peter?” Wade demanded.

 **_Both,_ ** White answered dryly.

 **Picture this: a threesome.** Yellow chimed in. **I’m just sayin’. Unf.**

Wade nodded slowly, the sound of sirens reaching his ears. “Oh man!” he exclaimed then, “I should've asked Spidey for the pictures myself so _Peter_ doesn't have to ask him to sell pictures of his sweet cheeks to a total stranger!”

 **_Do you_ ** **really** **_want him to know you touch yourself while thinking about him?_ ** White demanded.

“Please, I’m sure he’s known for awhile now,” Deadpool said, scrambling up the nearest fire escape to the roof, cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing “ ** _Spideyyyy! Yoo-hooo!_ ** ” There was no response, and Deadpool couldn't even _see_ the wall-crawler. “Dammit,” he said, then shrugged. “Oh well. Guess there’s always next time.”

 **_Whenever that will be_** , White grumbled.

“Yeah,” Deadpool said glumly, before snapping his fingers excitedly. “Ya think Petey would be able to arrange a team-up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day...? I guess?? Haha sorry this isn't romantic, but there was an aborted half-flirt from an awkward, scarred-for-life Spidey, that's vaguely romantic, right?
> 
> I guess to me, it's important to explore the nuances of _why_ Wade kills, because yes, killing people is _thrilling_ and _challenging_ and _cathartic_ for him, but it has always intrigued me that he still sees himself as the good guy, and I think part of it is he sees himself as the ugly guy who's willing to do ugly things for the right reason. He sees himself as the one who gets his hands dirty so people like Spidey don't have to. And while Spidey may not get that just yet, I think as they get to know each other better, it's something that will come up again, will be discussed in greater detail, and will likely play a crucial role in their blossoming relationship.
> 
> But for now, have a disappointed Spidey and a *shrug emoji* Deadpool. Happy 'Martyr Who Fell In Love With His Jailer's Daughter and Then Died Anyway' Day. Enjoy your chocolate!


	11. A Textual Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication is important, kiddos.

Peter got home exhausted, and was glad to see that Deadpool wasn't waiting for him. Then again, Deadpool was probably off collecting the money he'd earned by shooting a man in the head. 

Dropping his backpack to the floor with a heavy sigh, Peter ran a hand down his face before peeling off his suit. He gave it a quick sniff check -- not too sweaty or gunpowder-y. Good. Between his classes and tutoring he'd only managed about five hours of patrol before Deadpool killed his gradually improving mood by murdering someone in cold blood,  _ right in front of him _ . Another alley. Another dumpster. Another back of someone’s head painting the wall. He’d pushed on through the sickness, if only because he couldn't risk Deadpool recognizing the lower half of his face and he couldn't exactly puke  _ through _ the mask. 

Peter saw a lot of awful things on a daily basis, but the ease with which Deadpool ended the life of another human being was something truly awful to behold. It was callous in a way that put him on the same moral level as most of the villains Peter fought as Spider-Man. At least, to some degree. Technically, he supposed there was a distinction between killing an innocent bystander and killing a criminal. That being said, he wasn't comfortable trying to draw the line between those who were “guilty enough to be murdered” and those “innocent enough to be spared”. 

With an irritated sigh, Peter poked his fingers through several ‘close call’ holes in the suit. He wasn't bleeding from any of the small abrasions anymore, so he counted that a win, tossing the suit into the corner of the closet and promising himself he would sew up the small tears later. He threw himself down on the loveseat with a sigh. 

All things considered, Deadpool’s callous killing didn't necessarily complicate Peter’s life any more than before.  After all, he'd known all along that Deadpool was an accomplished - if unhinged - mercenary. It did, however, give him pause, to realize how truly depraved the man was. Did he really want to be associating with someone like that? (Did he even have a choice?)

And yet, Peter thought back to how Deadpool treated him, even though he was a poor, weak, helpless college student. Well, yeah, he was crass and really vocal about Peter’s body. But he was also persistent in being kind. He’d said it was because Peter was interesting. (Peter snorted once -- as if.)  He still figured it was guilt, or pity, and that puzzled him. A cold-blooded killer who felt bad about breaking a camera? Why?

His brooding was interrupted by his phone, which vibrated obnoxiously on the coffee table, breaking the silence of the room and startling Peter from his reverie. He fumbled for it briefly before holding it aloft and squinting at the unfamiliar number. The content of text itself was no help at all, it just said ‘ _ do u hav hte pics yet? _ ’ followed by a million emojis. 

He texted back, ‘ _ who is this? _ ’, only to get a skull emoji and a turd emoji, followed by the letter ‘L’ and the phrase ‘ _ send noods _ ’.

Peter didn't bother replying to that, and was tempted to block the number when his phone vibrated again. ‘ _ saw spidey today. forgot to ask him abt pics.’  _

Who the  _ hell  _ would bother telling him they'd seen Spider-Man? And Peter already  _ took  _ pictures of Spider-Man, so why would he need to be asked about… Oh. The realization was both crushing and embarrassing. 

‘ _ deadpool? _ ’ Peter typed out quickly. 

_ ‘who else?’  _ came the response.

‘ _ you don't have to ask Spider-Man about the photos’   _ Peter texted him. ‘ _ I'll ask him soon _ ’

The reply buzzed in to his phone several seconds later. ‘ _ how soon is “soon” hot stuff? within the nxt 3 hrs? im dyin here’ _

Peter rolled his eyes at that. ‘ _ Aren't you supposed to be unkillable or something?’ _

‘ _ im rock hard and need smth purty to fap to’ _

Peter almost dropped his phone. ‘ _ Wow. Can you maybe not overshare in the future? No offense, but wow. I was not prepared. _ ’ 

‘ _ do u need preparing? cuz that can be arranged.’  _  The message was accompanied by a variety of emojis ranging from eggplants, tongues, water drops, and the OK symbol. Peter didn't know exactly what it meant, but he had a pretty good idea and he was definitely not interested in learning more. 

‘ _ Deadpool. Seriously. Stop _ .’

The next message didn't come for at least a minute. ‘ _ my bad, petey. will keep it PG13. would still like an eta on pics.’ _

Peter sighed. ‘ _ I'll get back to you tomorrow _ .’

Deadpool sent a sad emoji. ‘ _ awww. tired? busy day in sci-land? _ ’

Peter’s face twisted a little as he tapped at his phone, ‘ _ you could say that _ .’

‘ _ what happened? _ ’  Peter stared at the words for an uncomfortably long period of time, not sure how to go about answering that.

‘ _ idk, just wasn't my day today. _ ’ He said finally, though he felt bad leaving it at that. ‘ _ sucks because the day started pretty nice, _ ’ he added. ‘ _ the pancakes were really good. _ ’

‘ _ there's more in the fridge _ ’ Deadpool texted back. 

As if in response to that newfound knowledge, Peter’s stomach grumbled. He was still lowkey pissed, and coming back he’d been too grumpy (and broke) to behave like a sensible person and get himself food. But Deadpool’s comment got him wondering how many pancakes might be in his minifridge. 

With a grunt, he rolled to his feet and shuffled across the floor to the kitchen, sending off a quick ‘ _ oh really? thanks! _ ’ text as he wandered over and opened the fridge. It was full of not only pancakes, but the other groceries Peter had almost forgotten about. There were fresh fruits and vegetables, even some frozen veggies and a pint of frozen  _ blueberries _ in the freezer. Peter could barely remember the last time he’d eaten a blueberry, frozen or otherwise. There was a small carton of fresh strawberries, too, because apparently some places actually grew strawberries in January? He wanted to weep at the sight.  He settled for snapping a photo of his fridge and editing text over it in snapchat so it said “how am I supposed to eat all this”, before realizing he didn't know if Deadpool had snapchat so he ended up saving it to his phone and sending it to him over text instead. 

‘ _ y dont i invite myself over n help u eat it _ ’  Deadpool responded, adding a selfie of him in an apron with anime blush stickers over his mask, a flower crown edited onto his head, at least 3 different filters to give it a sort of pinkish hue with hearts and flowers overlaid along with a shower of sparkles. It was captioned “ill be ur waifu, nya~!”

Peter wasn't 100% clear on what a Nya or a Waifu were but he felt embarrassed nonetheless. ‘ _ Maybe just be Deadpool, ok? I don't need a Waifu or a Nya.’ _  He sent the message with a slight shake of his head before pulling out a strawberry and eating it, not even bothering to wash it. The flavor burst like heaven across his taste buds. “Oh god,” he said aloud, covering his mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes. It was perfectly ripe, with just the right blend of sweet and tart, bursting with flavor. When was the last time he’d had strawberries? It had to have been at least a year, maybe longer. He’d forgotten how good fresh fruit tasted, especially berries, since they were too expensive for him to justify buying. Mostly he bought apples since they lasted for ages and were usually pretty reasonably priced. 

He found a small carton of blackberries  behind the strawberries and nearly wept. He wanted to eat them all,  _ immediately, _ but limited himself to two more strawberries and five blackberries. There was a pint of milk in there too, and he grabbed it, the berries, and a leftover pancake. There was a bottle of 100% maple syrup in the door, next to what was left of the stick of butter that Deadpool had used for the cakes that morning. 

Peter heated the pancake, added the butter, syrup, and berries, then headed back across the room to sit down on the loveseat. He tried to eat slowly, washing each bite down with a mouthful of milk. He wanted to savor the taste of sweet maple syrup and fresh berries on a fluffy, buttery pancake. He ate faster than he’d wanted, mostly because he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He finally remembered to glance at his phone, and was a bit surprised to see that Deadpool still hadn't replied to his last text. He shrugged it off, figuring the merc had better things to do than exchange messages with a starving nerdy college student. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Not sure if you noticed, but I accidentally started _another_ Spideypool fic! (i know, i know, im sorry...)  
>  The current update schedule plan is to keep this fic updating regularly (every 2 weeks), and the second fic will also be updated regularly (every 2 weeks) on alternating weeks. Hopefully this will give me enough time between updates to write _something_ fit to read. :) Thanks for reading!


	12. A Re-christened Katana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade uses Flirt!  
> It's not very effective!

Wade continued staring at his phone like if he looked at it long enough, the answer to his dilemma might just appear to him. “What the hell do you mean by that?” Wade asked his phone, and by extension, one thoroughly befuddling Peter Parker.

The kid had actually bothered answering his texts - a miracle in and of itself since Wade was usually at the top of everyone’s blocked number list - and _then_ he’d even thanked Wade! And he hadn't said Wade wasn't welcome to come again, either. But what had Wade really confused was the last text he’d sent. The one Wade was still trying to figure out, wrap his head around. “What do you mean, ‘just be deadpool’?” Wade demanded, shaking his phone, slightly. “Nobody wants me to just be Deadpool. They want me to just be _anyone but Deadpool._ ” He still couldn't quite believe it. He couldn't remember someone actually saying they wanted him to just be himself. Then again, he wasn't known for his reliable memory…

**_Yeah, well, he’ll learn better soon enough. He doesn't know you well enough yet to realize how terrible you are._ ** White was pulling no punches, as per usual.

**Can't we be Deadpool** **_and_ ** **his waifu?** Yellow whined.

“Pretty sure he was not into the flirting thing,” Wade said.

**_You did go from ‘I made you pancakes’ to explicit sexting in less than 24 hours._ ** White pointed out.

**And you stalked him and bought him unwanted gifts even after he puked on your shoes,** Yellow added.

“I seem to remember you being in favor of those things!” Wade argued.

**_Doesn't make it any less creepy that the two of you thought stalking a college kid was a good idea,_ ** White pointed out. **_Honestly the worst way to start a ship. No real person would find a stalker anything but super creepy._ **

“Peter isn't real?” Wade demanded.

**He does seem to be hiding something,** Yellow mused. **Maybe he’s a robot!**

“Yeah!”

**_That’s not - oh my god I hate both of you,_** White was getting exasperated.

“So you're saying I’m reading too much into this text and he meant I _shouldn't_ come to his place in an apron and not that he _wants_ me to come to his place as long as I’m not wearing the apron.”

**_I’m saying there’s no chance in hell he wants you anywhere near him,_ ** White snapped. **_But he’s afraid to tell you to fuck off because you're a master assassin and not known for your wise decisions._ **

“Plenty of people tell me to fuck off!” Wade argued.

**_How many of them look like a breeze could knock them over?_ **

Wade considered this. “Uhh…”

**_Exactly. The kid is terrified. Leave him the fuck alone_ **

“I don't wanna believe that,” Wade muttered, typing into his phone. “Are...you...afraid...of...me, question mark?” he said aloud as he composed his text.

**_Please tell me you're not going to read all the texts aloud._** White sounded tired.

“Bitch I just might,”  Wade answered testily. “Especially if you don't quit it with the attitude.”

**I kind of like it, it's like reading a book and listening to the narration at the same time!** Yellow said.

Wade was waiting anxiously for a reply. It took too long, but finally the text arrived.

‘ _should I be afraid of you?’_ Peter asked, and for a moment Wade was floored. People often feared him long before they knew about his profession, simply because of his fucked-up facial features. He’d never encountered someone who turned the question around, made it actually sound like his _choice_ as to whether or not Peter feared him. For someone who’d had so much of his free will and personal agency taken from him, the idea that Peter was willing to give him the final word somehow pleased him in a way that he never could have expected. 

**Oh god,** Yellow said, **Forget pictures of spidey. Google a picture of Peter instead.**

Wade was tempted, but remembered how uncomfortable Peter had been with the flirting. “Nah guys, if he’s willing to give me the courtesy of respecting how I want to be seen by him, I should at least _try_ to respect his wishes in a similar arena.”

**Would fantasizing about him violate that courtesy?** Yellow pressed. **Because my god. His** **_lips_ ** **. His** **_face._ ** **His** **_-_ **

“Pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate it, yeah,” Deadpool said weakly. He wanted to agree with Yellow, but he couldn't quite bring himself to disregard the kid’s wishes when he’d been so accommodating to Deadpool. Deadpool wondered if this was actually friendship.

Whatever this was, it felt different from his ‘knows too much about you and sticks by you anyway’ relationship with Weasel. It also wasn't really like the ‘will call you on any and all of your bullshit in a vaguely antagonistic manner’ thing he had going with Blind Al either. But then, didn't friendship have an infinite number of ways to be expressed? Friendship was merely an expression to describe the blending of two selves into a new identity, unique to every relationship. Wade had read that in a fortune cookie once, so it must be true. He was pretty sure he knew what it meant by the two selves and identity bit too. It was like how some people had secret handshakes or inside jokes, probably. He wished he had someone to trade snide inside jokes back and forth with besides Weasel - his jokes were getting old.

‘ _u should at least fear my puns,’_ Wade wrote back to Peter. ‘ _also bea n arthur.’_ he added after a minute.

‘ _Who are Bea and Arthur?_ ’ Peter texted back.

‘ _my katanas_ ,’ Wade answered. ‘ _well, the two on my back, anyway. ;)_ ’

Peter didn't reply for a minute. ‘ _As long as you follow knife safety rules in my apartment I won't be worried._ ’

Wade squinted at the text. “Is that a ‘safe sex’ joke or is he being serious?” he wondered aloud. He gasped, hands flying up to cover his mouth like a teenage girl in a Japanese daytime television drama. “Would that make this _two_ flirts in one day?” he pressed his palms to the sides of his cheeks, practically blushing.

**_If by flirt you mean accidental double entendres then yes, there were two of those today,_ ** White commented wearily. **_Give it a rest._ **

**But what if he** **_was_ ** **flirting?** Yellow whined.

“Yeah! What he said!” Deadpool agreed.

**_Then flirt back,_ ** White challenged. **_You know you only do this because no one will ever take you seriously._ ** White’s vote was harsh and cutting. **_Go on. See what happens. Maybe this time will be different. But don't come crying to me when it blows up in your face._ **

Wade stared at the screen. His fingers hovered. ‘ _I could show u my katanas sometime._ ’

‘ _I saw the two on your back this morning,’_ Peter replied. ‘ _You have more?’_

‘ _just the one between my legs_ ,’ Deadpool answered, throwing in a few emojis to help get the point across. There was something about emojis that he really enjoyed. Maybe it was the idea of using pictures rather than words. He’d never been particularly eloquent or well-educated in the art of rhetoric.  But a picture’s worth a thousand words, which practically made him an emoji novelist.

‘ _oh my god please don't show me that one_ ,’ Peter answered after a few seconds. ‘ _Bea and Arthur are more welcome to make an appearance, as long as they're secured and not being waved around. katana III can stay under wraps indefinitely._ ’

Deadpool had expected something along those lines. At least, small mercies, Peter apparently expected him to come back to the apartment, to the point where he was laying down ground rules for weapons. Also. Had Peter just named his dick ‘Katana the Third’? Holy shit. That was a much better name than ‘little Wade’!

**_Oh my god you are pathetic_** **,** White informed Wade. **_You know that was the last thing on his mind._ **

“So you’re saying he’s _subconsciously_ interested in re-christening little Wade,” he cupped his groin appreciatively as he spoke. “I can work with that.”

**_I am washing my hands of this,_ ** White decided. **_If you want to call it ‘Katana the Third’ you go ahead and do that. Count me out_** **.**

“You didn’t want to call him ‘little Wade’ either though,” Wade pointed out.

**That’s because you kept saying dumb shit like ‘little wade is excited today’ or ‘little wade has a big appetite’,** Yellow pointed out.

“Hey! You thought it was funny!” Wade protested.

**Yeah well there’s no accounting for taste,** Yellow countered. **I happen to like dumb shit. Anyone stuck in your head long enough would eventually learn to appreciate the finer points of dumbassery.**

**_Speak for yourself_** **,** White grumbled.

Wade ignored them, glancing back down at his phone, formulating his response to Peter’s text. ‘ _u mean ur gonna have a basket in the corner for me to leave my Katanas at the door?’_

_‘are you kidding? I cant afford that. Bea and Arthur can lounge in the umbrella rack like civilized swords.’_

Wade barked a laugh at that, composing a quick retort. ‘ _bea and arthur? civilized? r u forgetting who those swords belong to? they dont know the meaning of the word’_

Peter didn’t respond for a minute or two. Then, _‘you seem civilized enough to me.’_

‘ _HAHAHA’_ Wade typed, throwing a few ‘laughing’ emojis for emphasis. ‘ _you dont know me very well, then.’_

‘ _fair.’_ Peter answered, and for a moment, Wade worried that he was upset. Then the second message came in. ‘ _So let me get to know you better. Just. you know. Leave bea and arthur at the door. Also maybe actually use the door for once. Instead of the window. Just a suggestion.’_

Wade stared at the message. ‘ _But people would see me coming into your apartment if i use the door.’_

‘ _so?’_ Peter answered, missing the point entirely.

‘ _wouldnt it be awkward, trying to explain why you had a mercenary over for brunch?’_ Wade answered.

‘ _easier than explaining why a mercenary was sitting on my fire escape watching me sleep,’_ Peter answered.

‘ _touche.’_ Wade responded.

‘ _so enough with the Edward Cullen nonsense,’_ Peter’s next message read. ‘ _I’m going to talk to Spidey tomorrow about the photos. I’ll have an answer for you by tomorrow night.’_

Wade squealed excitedly. ‘ _OMG!! THANK U SO MUCH!! HOLY FUCK IM SO EXCITED_ ’

‘ _I_ _have no idea what he’s going to say,_ ’ Peter reminded him.

“Oh my god, I pissed him off today,” Wade said suddenly, speaking to his empty room. “What if he tells Peter no?” he felt frantic.

**_You killed a man in front of him, probably scarring him for life, and you’re worried about him not agreeing to let Peter sell steamy photos of him to you? Have you considered rearranging your priorities?_ ** White sighed.

“I stand by my priorities, fucked up though they may be, at the end of the day they are still _my_ priorities,” Wade argued.

**Maybe you should talk to Spidey before Peter does,** Yellow suggested.

“Yeah!” Wade said, suddenly thinking of Peter’s camera predicament. “Besides, it’s the only way he’d let me give him money.”

**And we definitely want him to have money,** Yellow said. **Otherwise he can’t buy a new camera. To take more photos of Spidey’s luscious ass** ** _._ **

“Yeah,” Wade said faintly, gazing fondly at the texts on his phone. “That’s why I want to give him money. To get more pictures…”

**_Sure,_ ** White scoffed _._ **_You keep telling yourself that_** **.**

**Or at least, keep telling** **_him_ ** **that** ** _,_ ** Yellow chimed in.

Deadpool waved his hand dismissively. “Right, right. Keep any other ulterior motives on the DL.”

**_Incredible_** **,** White marveled. **_He can be taught_** **.**

Wade scoffed before pausing, a thoughtful look crossing his features. “How much do you think we could reasonably throw his way before he starts protesting that I’m paying him too much for the photos?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your continued support! I am so glad so many of you enjoy this story!
> 
> For a bit of an update on my life outside of fanfic (haha what life, i know...), I recently published an original story on Kindle about two lovesick teenage superheroes. If you like mutual pining, strong female characters, dorky fish-boys and teen angst, I would love it if you decided to check it out [here](http://a.co/4WrMeEo)!
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support!


	13. A Restless Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter can't sleep. He should have stayed in bed.

Peter lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't sure how he felt about… all of this. Or, well, to put it simply, Deadpool. It got more involved than he’d expected, as Peter was struggling to accommodate the various aspects of the ineffable mercenary into one distinct “personality.” Deadpool didn't fit into a box, which baffled and, if he was totally honest with himself,  _ fascinated  _ Peter. The man was unpredictable, but the term wasn't necessarily synonymous with ‘dangerous’. (Though it very well could be.) He was a cold-blooded killer, but kind and understanding. He was menacing, yet tender, crass, yet careful. He did his best to heed concrete boundaries but relished pushing the envelope.  He was infuriating, terrifying, brutal, endearing, sweet, sassy, a good cook…

Peter groaned, shuffling around under his pile of blankets and begging his body heat to do its damn job and keep him warm. He shouldn't even be thinking about Deadpool, he reminded himself. He should be  _ sleeping _ . Especially since he was actually going to bed on a full stomach for once.  _ God _ those pancakes had been truck stop diner worthy, and Peter had never even  _ eaten _ at a truck stop diner. Some things you just  _ knew _ , and Peter  _ knew  _ he’d never find a better pancake in his life. What kind of person missed their calling in life as a breakfast cook so badly that they ended up as an unkillable mercenary? 

Then again, Peter was pretty sure his calling hadn't been swinging around New York City in spandex that left nothing to the imagination. Or even taking pictures of mutants. Or indirectly causing the death of his-

Peter rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut to blot out the scream building in his chest. What the hell was  _ wrong _ with him? He was supposed to be  _ sleeping _ . He sighed. Obviously sleep was not on the docket for tonight’s schedule of events. With a groan Peter rolled back out of bed and started peeling off his warm layers, fumbling around for a light switch before deciding he could probably get dressed by feel, the light would only hurt his eyes and blind him to the subtle shades of New York City semi-darkness once he got outside anyway. 

It seemed obvious in retrospect that he shouldn't have been out there when he was so exhausted he could barely see straight. His Spider-sense saved him from two or three nearly fatal misfires when his eyes were too gritty with lack of sleep to properly judge his webs’ trajectory. He picked fights that he probably shouldn't have, and ended up pinned beneath an armored truck -  _ twice _ \- for his trouble. He ended up barely avoiding fatal gunshot wounds through blind luck, and his reaction time was so slow from fatigue that a toddler with a lead pipe could have gotten in a few lucky hits. Unfortunately for Peter, it was not a toddler who got in the lucky hits. 

The truly mountainous behemoth was apparently in the employ of the notorious Kingpin, who Peter would probably need to track down eventually, since his goons seemed dead set on picking fights with him and sinking the claws of the mob deeper into the underbelly of his beloved city. After giving only  _ slightly _ better than he was taking, he finally managed to web up the two goons and make a friendly phone call to the police department that ended abruptly after the dispatch transferred him to the chief of police who started ranting about vigilante justice and burden of proof and at that point Peter hung up because his eyes were starting to cross independent of his will. He dragged his bruised, battered, and exhausted body back to his apartment, stowing his suit just as the first streaks of sunlight began to filter through his window. Groaning, Peter threw himself into bed, his eyes fluttering shut. His whole body felt like a lead weight, sinking down, down, down… 

A screech of noise tore him up out of bed, he nearly hit the roof before he realized it was his alarm. He punched the snooze on his phone almost violently, already positive that this was going to be a  _ terrible  _ day. What a way to start off your Friday, going all night without sleeping. Grumbling, Peter forced himself out of bed, heart still hammering in his chest after his alarm’s tone had scared him half to death. He stumbled his way into a frigid shower, hot water was a luxury after all. He didn’t have money to waste on the water bill waiting for something that may never arrive. A quick once-over and he was out of the shower, toweling down, and trying not to bite his tongue with chattering teeth. He glanced in the mirror and winced. A black eye, courtesy of Kingpin’s goons, not to mention a few close calls with bullets, and what appeared to be a lovely hand-shaped bruise on his shoulder too. He checked to make sure nothing required DIY first aid. Luckily his healing factor seemed to be doing just fine, so he let things be and got dressed, pulling on a baseball cap and tugging it low, hoping that between it and his healing factor the bruising on his face wouldn't stand out much.

He almost left without eating, as was his usual routine, when he remembered  _ groceries _ . Instead he wolfed down two of the pancakes, tucking the remaining two into a paper towel for lunch. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuffed an apple in his backpack too, though he forced himself to leave the remaining berries for later.

He started the long thirty-minute walk to his college campus, struggling more than usual under the weight of his heavy backpack.  _ God,  _ he was tired. He dragged himself into class and fought desperately to follow the course of the lecture. It was an easy course, usually. It was not easy on zero sleep and an aching body. 

After class he had tutoring, where he tried his hardest not to snap at befuddled students coming to him for help. He just wanted to curl up and sleep for ten years. And eat. He’d wolfed down his pancakes and apple after his second class of the day, and his stomach was crying for food.

He was finishing up his own homework during a lull in tutoring when his phone buzzed lightly in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the message. It was from Deadpool, and said only ‘ _ well?’ _

It took Peter a long moment to connect the dots, and suddenly he was feeling vindictive. And self destructive. Which, considering his night, was not all that surprising. It wasn't like Peter could tell Deadpool to go fuck himself. (In fact, he rather suspected the mercenary would not only take his words to heart, he would probably  _ enjoy _ the self-stimulation…) Peter could, however, tell Deadpool that Spidey had told him no.

‘ _ He said he’s not comfortable being treated like a centerfold _ ,’ Peter texted him back. ‘ _ Sorry. I tried. _ ’

He expected rage, maybe some cursing, or at least a thinly veiled threat or some attempt to coerce the photos from him anyway. Instead, Deadpool’s reply was nothing short of respectful, which only served to piss Peter off. How was he supposed to blame other people for his self-destruction if even  _ Deadpool _ wouldn't let him shoot himself in the foot?

‘ _ Ok,’ _ Deadpool texted back, ‘ _ If that's how he feels, I can live with that. _ ’ 

Peter put his phone aside and went back to his homework. His phone buzzed again a moment later. 

‘ _ Maybe I can convince him to change his mind!’ _

Peter  _ highly _ doubted that would be the case…

“Parker! Parker!” someone was shaking his shoulder, and for a moment Peter’s instincts nearly took over. Fortunately there was no warning from his Spider-sense, so he suppressed the urge to jump ten feet in the air and instead yelped loudly and sat up straight. 

His Manager was giving him the evil eye. “You've been asleep for the last ten minutes,” she told him sternly, “Go find yourself a cup of coffee or…” her voice trailed off, a look of shock crossing her features. “What  _ happened _ ?”

Bleary-eyed from his lack of sleep, it took Peter a moment to realize that his baseball cap had been knocked askew, leaving his battered features on full display. He scrambled to tug his hat back into place, muttering, “It's nothing,” under his breath before turning up the charm and smiling at his manager. “I’m awake now,” he promised.

She looked worried. “Peter,” she said, proving that she  _ did  _ know his name and simply preferred glowering and calling him ‘you’ or ‘Parker’, “Was it that … cheeseburger man? Did he do this to you?”

For a moment Peter was lost. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said weakly.  _ Cheeseburger man? _

Unfortunately, she mistook his confusion for denial. She leaned closer. “It's all right,” she said, “You don't have to say anything.” She patted his shoulder comfortingly, and went back to her computer, leaving Peter thoroughly baffled until the end of his shift, when she pressed a folded paper into his hands on his way out, a sympathetic look on her face. Peter hoisted his backpack over his shoulder, unfolding the paper as he trudged across campus.

It was a flyer with the phone number for a confidential domestic violence and sexual assault hotline. Peter felt his face heat. Why would she ever assume…? Then he remembered. Cheeseburger man. His first day of work. Deadpool sprawling across his tutoring table, looming over him with a bag full of greasy hamburgers. “ _Oh my_ ** _god_** _!”_ He shouted, drawing startled glances from random passers-by. “She thinks we- that we’re-” _she thinks Deadpool and I are in a relationship?!_ He shook his head to rid it of the thought, only to have it replaced by something worse. _An_ **_abusive_** _relationship?_ Deadpool may have been a serial killer for hire, but Peter couldn’t picture the man as an abuser. Maybe two weeks ago he might have given it some consideration, but knowing what he did now… Deadpool seemed much more inclined to use his power to _defend_ the innocent, not break them. 

“Hey Petey-Pie!” the shout rang across the campus, and Peter’s heart leapt into his throat. He flicked his gaze around anxiously. His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

‘ _ omg petey my bad’  _ Another buzz, another text.  _ ‘forgot i was supposed to text you before I came to see you.’  _ Another buzz. ‘ _ better late than never, amirite? wanna hang after work? _ ’

‘ _Now_ _isnt a great time…’_ Peter texted back, feeling his blood pressure spike. He glanced around anxiously, not sure how Deadpool would react to the sight of his badly bruised facial features. He didn't want _another_ person jumping to conclusions about him. He could practically _feel_ the eyes of the mercenary on him - or maybe that was his Spider-sense. Deadpool must be somewhere nearby, watching. ‘ _Why do you want to hang out?_ ’ he asked Deadpool. It wasn't like hanging with Peter was going to change Spider-Man’s mind. 

‘ _because_ _tgif!’_ Deadpool texted back. ‘ _or dont u drink_?’

‘ _ im not 21 _ ,’ Peter answered after a moment. Even if he  _ had _ been, he still shouldn't have even been considering hanging out with the merc, but Peter was good at ignoring inconvenient truths. 

_ ‘i know a place’ _ Deadpool replied, following this comment with a cluster of emojis related to alcohol in some form. 

Peter wasn't really convinced this place Deadpool knew was somewhere a string bean like him should be visiting. ‘ _ I’ll stick to non-alcoholic beverages for now, thanks _ ’ he answered.

‘ _ how bout burgers? _ ’ Deadpool texted back. ‘ _ or pizza? _ ’

‘ _ Why? _ ’ Peter wanted to know. ‘ _ It's not like I can change Spider-Man’s mind.’  _ Though pizza did sound nice. His stomach chose that moment to grumble in agreement.

‘ _ its not about the pics’  _ Deadpool protested. ‘ _ I told u, ur interesting. so let's hang’ _

Peter sighed. ‘ _ ok. Pizza sounds good,’ _ he typed out, and was about to hit send when he heard a soft inhale from behind.

“Excellent! I know just the place!” 

Peter screamed like a small child in a haunted house, throwing his hands in the air and whirling around to face Deadpool, who had apparently been  _ reading over his shoulder _ while they texted. “Oh my  _ god! _ ” Peter shouted furiously, clutching at his chest, trying to catch his breath, “Don’t  _ ever _ do that again, I almost  _ died _ _!_ ”

Deadpool was cackling gleefully, though the laugh caught in his throat and died a moment later. “What the  _ fuck _ happened to your face, Petey?” one hand was hovering just above Peter’s bruised cheekbone, the other was inching towards a katana. “Who did this to you? Just say the word.”

Peter sputtered, tugging his baseball cap down, as if that would do any good  _ now _ . “What? No! Deadpool, you will  _ not _ stab… anyone!” he finished vaguely. “Besides, uh, Bea and Arthur are probably tired and stuff, so yeah,” he finished weakly, “no need to get all stabby on me.”

“Not stabby  on _you_ ,” Deadpool protested, though he let the katana slide back into its sheath, “Stabby on the motherfucker who  _ did  _ this to you.”

Peter resisted the urge to groan. He should have  _ known _ hanging out would be a mistake...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta be honest, this was one of my favorite chapters to write, I swear the story has like six mood swings in this chapter alone...
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me! I'm close to running out of chapters on this fic now (eep! D: ) so I guess I better get writing on it pretty soon. In the meantime, I've been posting a few oneshots here and there to try and practice my writing sprint-type stuff. 
> 
> Also, again, a reminder that [this](http://a.co/aD3svT6) is my own original fiction work about teenage superheroes and their (probably unnecessary) drama. It's part of a series, and if all goes according to plan, the villain book will be out in the next month or so, so please do check it out if you get the chance! (also please rate and/or leave a review if you do read it, I always appreciate feedback!)


	14. An Eventful Self-Defense Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes a move. Wade is spooked.

Wade was a boiling cauldron of rage on the inside. Just a glance at poor Petey’s face infuriated him. Who could ever bring themselves to brutalize such an adorable, innocent face? That sort of monstrous cruelty was beyond him.

 ** _Oh please,_** White was not having the hypocrisy. **_Like you’ve never battered a pretty boy._**

“Not like that,” Wade argued, “Not an innocent pretty face!” He glanced at the nerdy science student in concern.  
Peter looked confused by Wade’s comment. He also looked battered and exhausted. The bruises looked to be about a day old, judging by the color. Suddenly, the text Peter had sent yesterday about it being a rough day made a lot more sense to Wade.

“No wonder you had such a terrible day yesterday!” he exclaimed. “Did you get mugged?”

 ** _Is the sky blue?_** White asked mockingly. **_Do birds fly? Is Wade Wilson a fucking moron?_**

“Actually… I accidentally joined a fight club,” Peter quipped. “It didn't work out too well.”

He could even make self-deprecating jokes about getting mugged! Wade felt his heart swell in appreciation. “Baby boy you have got to take better care of yourself!” he said anxiously. “Do you know any sort of self-defense?”

Peter gestured at himself, his lip curling a little in disgust, as though he didn't like what he saw. Wade couldn't for the life of him figure out why that might be the case, but… “Look at me,” he said dejectedly. “Do I look like someone who knows karate?”

“Well no, but neither do most people who know karate,” Deadpool countered.

Peter blinked. “Oh.” He considered that. “Okay.”

“I have a brilliant idea!” Deadpool exclaimed suddenly.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “What idea would that be?” he asked.

“I’ll teach you self-defense!” Deadpool exclaimed. “Obviously, you'll be using a different style from my own usual techniques, but I bet if we blended in some aikido and jiujitsu to the karate it would help a lot with the whole string bean thing - or, I dunno, how do you feel about Krav Maga or kickboxing?”

Peter blinked once, twice, three times before he finally found his voice. “...what?”

“I’ll teach you self-defense!” Deadpool clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder and leaned over to stage-whisper into his ear, “I don't know if you know this, but NYC can be a scary place.”

“I’m not surprised,” Peter drawled, “After all, you live here.”

Deadpool barked a surprised laugh. “You got that right!” he turned back to Peter, his whole body radiating earnestness. “Waddaya say? Want me to teach you karate?”

Peter had obviously never had any real formal training in combat. His face screwed up as he considered what it might be like to learn how to fight, wincing a little.

“Cmon Petey,” Deadpool wheedled, “I always wanted a Padawan.”

“That’s Star Wars,” Peter corrected him absently, “Shouldn't you be saying ‘I always wanted a Daniel-san’?”

“Ohhhh my god, I’m mister Miyagi!” Deadpool shouted, pumping a fist in the air. “Yes!” he wiped the air with his hands then. “Wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off. Ohhh man, Petey, this is gonna be great!”

Peter winced. “We aren't going to like, actually fight each other, are we?”

Deadpool tilted his head a little. “Why? You’re not afraid I’m going to hurt you?” he sounded almost insulted by the implication.

“You're like twice my size,” Peter pointed out, “Your bicep is practically bigger than my waist.”

Deadpool glanced between his bicep and Peter’s waist appraisingly. “Nah, pretty sure it's only two-thirds as big.”

Peter sighed. “My point being, you could snap me like a toothpick.”

Deadpool seemed confused. “Well yeah, but the point would be to teach _you_ how to snap _me_ like a toothpick.”

Peter goggled. “I could do that?” he highly doubted he’d be even close to beating Deadpool as Peter. Hell, even Spider-Man had trouble stopping the guy.

Deadpool seemed amused. “Not unless you're some sort of ninja-level prodigy,” he said. “So maybe not me specifically. But people my size? Sure. Big guys go down easy when you know the right moves.”

Peter didn't buy it. “You mean I could have held my own against Flash after all?”

Deadpool frowned. “Who’s Flash?”

“Oh, just my school’s star quarterback who relentlessly hassled me through High School,” Peter answered.

“Asshole,” Deadpool decided.

“I dunno, I wasn't very good about rolling over and just taking the beating,” Peter said. “I think he kept coming after me because I refused to let him beat me. At least, you know, mentally. He beat me physically on a regular basis.”

Deadpool reached toward’s Peter’s face. “Petey…”

“Not like this,” Peter exclaimed suddenly, pointing to his face. “Just, bumping me, knocking books out of my hands, trying to emasculate me in front of my friends to impress them - most of my friends were girls,” he added as an aside. “And he somehow thought that embarrassing me would make them like him more?”

Deadpool nodded in understanding. “Ah yeah. I was always the slacker in school,” he said awkwardly. “Didn't really bulk up ‘til the military.”

Peter shrugged. “At least you weren't a bully.”

“You gotta be at school to be a bully,” Deadpool said. “Though I did and said a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

Peter nodded. “I mean, I’m only just out of high school and looking at stuff I said and did freshman year makes me cringe. I imagine ten years down the road that whole period of my life is going to one festering pile of regret.”

Deadpool shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said. “I decided to forget is easier than regret, but whatever works for you.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them back and forth. “So, with that whole deep and awkward conversation out of the way… Daniel-san?”

“I go by Peter.”

“Peter-san?”

Peter sighed longsufferingly. “Yes, Deadpool?”

“Let's learn you some karate.”

* * *

Wade was thoroughly enjoying any and every excuse to put his hands on Peter. Each time he corrected the way Peter was positioning his hands, Wade took it as an invitation to gently take the kid’s hand, tilting it to the appropriate angle. Every wobble was a chance for him to put his hands around Peter’s lithe waist and turn his hips just-so. Every misstep a moment where Wade could gently nudge his little nerd’s knee until it was pointed in the right direction.

After a good two hours of ‘self defense for dummies’, Peter flopped down in the soft grass carpeting a secluded corner of the Midtown University Campus where Wade had decided to give him his lesson. “That's it,” he declared, “I don't think I’ll ever be able to move again. My body wasn't built for violence - unless it’s World of Warcraft.” he looked and sounded exhausted. Did the kid even sleep?

“You're doing great,” Wade lied, considering he’d never seen a more pathetic display of physical prowess in his entire life. Peter was the exact opposite of naturally gifted in the area of martial arts. If anything, he was a natural klutz. He was cute, though, so Wade didn't mind helping him. Which was good, because if he hadn't been so cute, trying to teach him would've been more frustrating than Wade was equipped to handle.

“You don't have to lie,” Peter said weakly, still puffing from an exercise that wasn't considered hard by any stretch of the imagination.”I know I’m terrible at this,” he said.

“Well, yeah, okay, you are,” Deadpool agreed. “But you're learning!”

 **Learning how to be a failure,** Yellow snorted.

 ** _Learning new ways to try your patience, maybe,_** White added.

“Learning…? Really?” Peter laughed self-deprecatingly. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Deadpool said pleasantly, flopping onto the ground next to Peter. “So. You hungry? Let’s go find us some grub. How do you feel about Pizza? Tacos? Burgers? Fried chicken?”

Peter hummed low in his throat. “Anything sounds good.” he glanced over at Deadpool, a slight smile curling his lips. “Nothing beats your pancakes, though.”

Wade considered stabbing himself in the hand to make sure he wasn't dreaming. This had to be a hallucination, there was no way someone so adorable - mousy brown hair tousled from exertion, russet eyes shining with sincerity, full, pink lips making a slight ‘o’ shape - would ever look at him like that.

 **Kiss him!** Yellow shouted. **Kiss him now, oh my god, kiss him!**

 ** _Sure, why not totally sabotage your chances with him here and now, you needed to realize how fruitless this effort was anyway, and sooner is better than later._** White scoffed.

“I could totally kiss you right now,” Wade told Peter.

“You're wearing a mask,” Peter told him, looking slightly confused. “That might make it rather difficult.”

 **Abort! Abort!** Yellow was shrieking. **Under no circumstances should you be taking off the mask!**

 ** _Oh god, he never listens to us when we give good advice,_** White said. **_So yes, by all means, flaunt that hamburger face._**

“What if I took the mask off?” Wade asked huskily, turning to look at Peter. His cheeks were pinked from exercise, and Wade could almost pretend his little puffs of breath from being winded was the quickening of breath caused by arousal.

Peter seemed to be seriously considering Wade’s half-facetious question. “I’ve never kissed a guy before,” he said hesitantly. “Harry wasn't interested in any sort of experimentation, and he was the only guy friend I ever really had that I was close enough with to try that kind of thing.”

“Whoever Harry is, he’s a fool for passing up the opportunity to mack on someone as pretty as you,” Deadpool told Peter.

“You mean that?” Peter asked,  
rolling onto his side to look at Wade, his warm brown eyes appearing sharp and focused. Slowly, he reached for Wade’s mask, and it was like every panic button in his whole body was punched at once. Before he even realized what had happened, he was on his feet a good ten feet away from Peter, who was still lying on the ground, hand outstretched. He lowered his hand slowly, a look of - was it disappointment? - flitting across his features.

“Sorry,” Peter apologized, “That was too forward of me.”

Wade’s heart was pounding in his chest, crawling up his throat, shaking the inside of his head until all his thoughts were scrambled. Peter. Had. Almost. Kissed. Him.

What. The fuck.

“I, I gotta go,” Wade said weakly. “Gotta, uh. Places to be, people to un-alive. You know how it is.” With that, he was running, running away from the beautiful, innocent, flawless boy that he most definitely did not deserve.

The boxes were screaming, but Wade’s thoughts were too scrambled to make sense of what they were saying. Nothing made sense. And so, he ran, not even sure what from, exactly.

* * *

Wade didn't check his phone until much later. There were several messages from Peter, growing increasingly frantic.

_Hey, sorry about that, I guess I came on too strong._

_I really am sorry. Please don't be mad._

_I was looking forward to being introduced to Bea and Arthur soon, I hope this doesn't change that._

_Please answer me I’m starting to get worried._

_Please don't do anything to yourself, okay? Don't hurt yourself because of me._

_Please be okay_

_please answer._

_please I can't let this be my fault again_

_please_

 Wade shook his head. “Melodramatic much?” he scoffed.

 ** _He has you pegged as someone who self-harms when overwhelmed. That's eerily insightful,_** White commented, sounding more than a little suspicious.

 **Aw, let the little guy worry, absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe he'll even find it in himself to grow fond of you!** Yellow suggested.

“I...was...busy...doing...stuff…” Wade spoke aloud, tapping away at his phone. “Just got… your… messages, ...everything… is fine.”

 **Everything is not fine, he tried to take off our mask!** Yellow yelped.

“We...can...still… grab...something… to eat… tomorrow… if … you … want,” Wade finished typing and hit send. “Okay,” he said to the boxes, “I’m going to bed to have sexy dreams of me not being a ugly-ass motherfucker, where Peter and I actually got to lay on the grass and make out lazily for the rest of the afternoon.”

 ** _Even if he had kissed you there's no guarantee he would've liked it._** White pointed out.

“Excuse you, I am a very good kisser!” Deadpool protested.

 ** _Keep telling yourself that,_** White scoffed.

“I will,” Deadpool muttered, peeling off his clothes on his way to the shower. He needed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for disappearing without warning, I spent the last two weeks moving out of my apartment while working full time and fighting off a sinus infection. I'm back now, and I hope to keep this fic regularly updated from here on out! Sorry for the sudden didappearabce, it shouldn't happen again!
> 
> Thanks again for all your support and kind comments!


	15. A Sensual Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is beginning to realize he's fallen, and fallen _hard_.

Peter needed sleep, holy shit. He lay on the grass for awhile after Deadpool ran off, his brain screaming at him, but he was too tired to think clearly. Obviously. Because he’d tried to _kiss Deadpool_ and he _knew_ the Merc was sensitive about the mask, and he felt _awful_ about chasing the merc away. Somehow that fact bothered him more than the fact that he’d _tried to kiss Deadpool._

Peter flung his forearm over his eyes and sighed. What the hell had he been thinking? He wasn't sure. Just last night he’d been furious at Deadpool for killing a man in cold blood, and now he was trying to _kiss_ the Merc?

He wished he could say it didn't mean anything, but Peter wasn't the type to go around just planting one on people willy-nilly. He’d really, genuinely _wanted_ to kiss the mercenary.

Obviously, the feeling was not mutual. It lowkey pissed him off, realizing that Deadpool was more interested in Spider-Man than Peter. Or maybe the mercenary just wasn't interested in things like kissing and cuddling. Peter’s train of thought began to drift at that possible revelation. Maybe Deadpool’s tastes were not so… tame.

Peter shivered a little at the thought. What sorts of ‘non-tame’ things might the merc be into? Peter could practically _feel_ the mercenary’s broad, warm hands trailing down Peter’s body, dipping below his waistband…

Peter sat up, scrubbing at his face frantically, trying to wipe the mental image from his mind. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?” he asked himself in an undertone. “Some guy buys you dinner a few times and suddenly you can't get enough of him?” He sighed, hand passing over his features as he fought to focus. “He’s not even _into_ you, god.”

With a grunt, Peter hauled himself to his feet. Between the sleep deprivation and the number of hits he'd taken the night before, he had barely needed to feign incompetence during his Karate lesson with Deadpool. He fished his phone out of his pocket, composing a quick apology message to Deadpool, which he sent before tucking the phone back into the rear pocket of his jeans.

With a slight wobble, Peter began making his way across campus and back to his apartment. He felt exhausted, emotionally drained, and a tad frustrated. Why did Deadpool have to respond so… _dramatically_ to things? Speaking of responses, Peter wondered if the Merc had texted him back yet. He pulled his phone out and frowned. Nothing.

He typed out another apology, less glib this time.

By the time he’d walked home, dusk had blended into twilight before passing into that shadowy semi-darkness that hung heavy over Queens from evening to the early morning hours.

Deadpool _still_ hadn't responded, and Peter had sent two more texts with increasingly worried messages. He knew it looked bad - sending that many unanswered messages just _screamed_ “pathetic”, but Peter was fairly comfortable with that label at this point in his life, so coming across as “pathetic” wasn't enough to keep his nervous fingers from typing out yet another message.

What if Deadpool freaked out again? What if he was using Peter’s behavior as an excuse to hurt others - or worse, himself? What if the insides of his head were currently coating the wall of another dark, dirty alley? Peter couldn't stand the thought of his reckless, thoughtless come-on being a driving factor in Deadpool’s self-destructive tendencies.

He already had so much blood on his hands, albeit indirectly. He didn't want Deadpool’s blood on his hands either - even if the merc _could_ regenerate.

Finally, the merc responded. The relief Peter felt was instantaneous. He collapsed into bed the moment they ended their conversation for that night, and was asleep within minutes.

* * *

 

Peter tried hard not to stare at Deadpool from where he sat opposite the merc. He was still nervous, didn't want to _scare_ him, just wanted to spend more time with him. Peter licked his lips nervously, his mouth so dry he didn't think he could eat, despite the appeal of a truly mouth-watering steak that had just been placed before him by their waiter.

He glanced at Deadpool, who was already tucking into his steak. “Are you sure about this?” he asked nervously. “Isn't this place… you know, pricey?”

Deadpool sighed exasperatedly, pointing at Peter’s steak with his knife. “We already got our food, baby boy. If we send it back now they'll just throw it away. Now eat, before it gets cold!”

Peter nodded nervously, squawking out a quick “okay,” before he began cutting into the tender, juicy steak.

In what seemed to be a moment, Peter and Deadpool had both finished their meals. Peter felt pleasantly warm and comfortable as he gazed at Deadpool.

The merc was propping his chin in his hands. “You know,” he said, almost pensively, “I could go for some more meat.”

Peter glanced around, but the restaurant seemed mostly deserted, like their table was isolated in the far corner - private. Maybe too private, if you couldn't even see an available waiter to flag down. “I don't see anyone taking orders right now.”

Deadpool leaned forward a bit, a predatory growl creeping into his tone. “Maybe I want _you_ to take my order.”

Peter blinked, confused. Then he felt a hand on his knee. He looked down, and realized that Deadpool was fondling his knee. “Um,” Peter said intelligently, “What?”

“I want what’s on _this_ menu,” Deadpool gently squeezed Peter’s thigh at the word _this_ , “Not _that_ one,” he nodded to indicate the restaurant’s menu.

Peter felt hot all over, his heart beginning to beat faster. “I…” he wasn't sure what to say to this. Was Deadpool soliciting him? In a fancy steak restaurant? “Here?” Peter glanced around again. Isolated, but not enough for comfort. “Now?”

The merc shrugged slowly, “Here, somewhere else, wherever, just so long as I get to wrap my lips around that sweet, sweet cock of yours.”

Peter felt his throat tighten. What? “But what about the mask-” he began, and Deadpool made a shushing sound, placing a finger against Peter’s lips.

“Let me worry about that,” he rumbled before leaning back and easing under the table. He put his hands on Peter’s waistband, running his fingers lightly around to the button at the top of Peter’s jeans before pausing. “May I?”

Peter couldn’t really see much more than his fingers, but he could practically feel the heat radiating off the Merc. “Oh god,” he gasped, then realized this wasn't actually an answer. “ _God_ yes,” he amended.

Suddenly his mouth was on Peter, the wet warm heat _everything_ he’d imagined and more. He fought to keep his hips still so he wouldn't choke the merc, but Deadpool didn't seem to have a gag reflex at all, taking Peter’s length until he bottomed out against the killer-for-hire’s face.

The pace set by the merc with _a mouth_ was both punishing and perfect, a brutal pulse that drove Peter ever closer to the edge until he came with a yelp, feeling tight arms wrapping around him as he shuddered to completion, the room going white around him.

The room that filtered back as his consciousness returned was not the steak restaurant, and Deadpool was nowhere to be seen. The only sensation Peter recognized immediately was the wet, sticky spot in his pants and the tight clutch of his blankets tangled around his legs.

Peter fumbled for his glasses before squinting at the bedside alarm. Six-thirty. Damn. Not enough time to go back to sleep, then. With a groan, Peter tugged himself out of bed, peeling off his soiled clothes and the sheets, muttering under his breath, trying to push the dream from his mind.

This was _so_ much worse than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, I've had approximately zero time to write the last few weeks and pretty much barfed this onto the page in a matter of hours. Unedited, unbeta'd, tiny trash chapter. Thanks for reading it anyway! :)


	16. An Unusual Interaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool is a coward. Spider-Man is confused.

Wade thought he’d be able to face the adorable nerd after a decent night’s sleep. But his sleep was far from decent (instead bordering on _in_ decent), and as morning came and went while he sat immobile on his couch staring blankly at a daytime soap that had lost his attention nearly ten minutes into the first episode, Wade realized he was not remotely ready to face the cute nerd.

What's a Merc to do when he can't face his fear of commitment? Why, track down Spidey and tell _him_ what's wrong, that’s what. Now, Webs wasn't always great for advice, especially when it came to business. He was chock full of pithy phrases like “maybe don't kill the criminal” or “have you considered nonlethal alternatives” or “maybe don't use explosives that could level an entire city block” or “Holy shit, Deadpool, you can't tell me these things or I’m duty bound to at least _try_ and stop you.”

Still, he _listened_ , which was leaps and bounds ahead of the average hero who would run away or take other, increasingly drastic measures to shut him up. He didn't always _get_ Wade’s whole gig with the un-aliving and shit but at least he wasn't so hypocritical as to pretend he's never killed anyone in his line of work. Sometimes Wade worried that Spidey was _too_ conscious of his failings, and not conscious enough of the good work he did. The man was a bona-fide _hero_ , after all…

Wade shut off the tv, which he hadn't really been watching anyway, and stared at the blank screen. Petey should still have plenty of food in his fridge from Wade’s last shopping trip, so he didn't have to feel guilty about starving the kid in addition to giving him the cold shoulder. Not that he felt guilty. He didn't owe Peter anything.

 ** _Except that you broke his camera, which happens to be his only source of income,_** White helpfully reminded Wade.

“I didn't do that on purpose!” Wade whined. “And he won't let me pay him back!”

 **Like you couldn't break in and stuff a pile of cash under his sorry excuse for a mattress,** Yellow pointed out.

“Well yeah, but…” Wade scrambled for an excuse. “What if he gave it back?”

 **_He’d have to be able to find you,_ ** White pointed out, **_And somehow force you to take the money back._ **

Wade considered this. “He doesn't have the skills necessary to do _either_ of those things.”

 **_So why not give him the cash outright?_ ** White demanded in that smug way White did when the answer was obvious to everyone but Wade. **_Because you_ ** **wanted** **_the attention._ **

“That's not… I didn't…” Wade sighed,  his heart not really in the protest because he _knew_ White was right. “He's too good for me,” he murmured softly, staring down at scarred hands before looking away convulsively. “Is it a crime to want something I don't deserve?”

 **No, but it's extra shitty to want what you don't deserve, and then make the kid feel bad for wanting you back,** Yellow told him.

Wade chose not to respond to that, instead heading for the door, tugging on his gloves and grabbing Bea and Arthur on his way out.

It didn't take him long to find Spidey, the webbed wonder had a regular routine and Wade had figured it out in pretty short order. He watched Spidey take out a mugger or two, then approached the spandex-clad hero with an appreciative whistle and a slap to the ass. Or, well, he’d aimed for the ass, but Spidey obviously saw it coming because he launched into the air with a superhuman vertical jump that no human could hope to achieve. Clinging to a lamp post that hung out over the alley, he shook a finger warningly in Wade’s direction.

“Deadpool, I swear to god, I am not in the mood,” he said, voice heavy with irritation. “I _will_ web you to the wall and leave you there.”

“Ooh, kinky,” Deadpool answered, making an obscene gesture. “I like it.”

 **Too bad he doesn’t like it as much as we do,** Yellow lamented.

“Maybe someday he’ll be more open to the possibility,” Deadpool said.

 **_Yeah, the same day that hell freezes over_** , White grumbled.

Spider-Man sighed, his shoulders slumping in his upside-down lampost-dangling position. It made him look like he was shrugging, since gravity wasn’t exactly working in his favor. “What do you want, Deadpool?

“Can’t I just come and say hi to my favorite hero?” Deadpool demanded.

 ** _Can’t I just come and be a total downer because I’m afraid of commitment and at least I_** **know** ** _I’ve got no chance with you?_** White mimicked him in a reedy voice.

“No, I just wanted to hang,” Deadpool snapped. “With my Spidey. We’re bros.”

“Are we really bros?” Spider-Man snapped, irritable. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not so sure. In case you forgot, the last time you and I were in the same space you _killed a man in cold blood_ .” Spider-Man dropped to the ground, stalking forward, aggression practically _oozing_ off him. “NYPD got all upset about it too. There were pictures in the Bugle. Blaming _me_ . Calling me a danger. A vigilante. A _menace_ . _Again._ ” He threw his hands in the air. “Why do you have to make everything so _difficult_ for me?”

 **_Face it, nobody wants you around. Even Spider-Man is sick of your shit_** **,** White hissed.

Deadpool ignored the box, still stuck on the fact that Spidey had gotten credit for _his_ hit. “Why would they think that _you_ took him out? It was a clean headshot! That takes _practice!_ Besides, I _totally_ had him way before you even got there!”

Spider-Man sighed heavily. “Yeah, but _I_ called the cops. Remember?”

“Oh, shit,” Deadpool said. “So the cops thought you did it? Did I forget to leave my calling card?”

Spider-Man cocked his head, drawing up short in his confusion. “You have a calling card?”

Deadpool dug into several pouches before finding what he was looking for. It was a simple black business card with a caricature of his mask on it. In blocky red letters it said ‘courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Deadpool’. “This is my calling card,” the merc explained, handing it over.

“There’s no contact information,” Spider-Man said, turning the card over and examining it carefully. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a calling card?”

“Oh, trust me, if you’re in need of my services, you’ll find me eventually,” Wade said. “Or die trying,” he added thoughtfully.

“Oh my god I did not want to know that,” Spider-Man said faintly. “People _die_ trying to get you to kill _other_ people?”

“Not _people_ ,” Wade insisted. “I kill _monsters,_ Spidey. I kill _bad guys_. Not people.”

Spider-Man covered his face with one hand. “We are _not_ having this conversation again, Deadpool. Not now.”

“Whatever,” Deadpool waved him off. “You wanna go get something to eat?”

Spider-Man eyed him strangely. “...why?”

Deadpool shrugged. “I dunno, I just… Thought it might be nice.”

Spider-Man folded his arms. “Deadpool. Seriously. What is going on? You’re acting… weird-er than normal.”

Deadpool suddenly felt as though he were in the crosshairs. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve only tried to touch my butt, like, once in this entire conversation. You have made exactly _one_ sex joke, you aren’t even _trying_ to eyeball my package...” Spider-Man trailed off. “Oh my god, did you get _laid?_ ”

Deadpool choked. “What the hell? You won’t go eat with me but you’ll ask me about my sex life?”

“You tell me about your sex life _constantly!_ ” Spider-Man exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “You once described a sex dream you had about me _in detail!_ Intimate detail! While I was webbing up criminals! They gave you _bonus points for butt stuff_.”

“It wasn’t _that_ intimate!” Deadpool insisted. “Besides, anyone would give bonus points for butt stuff,” he added in an undertone.

“It took you _twenty minutes_ to explain it to me!” Spider-Man yelped. “Pedestrians were _scarred_ for _life!_ ”

“It only took that long because white and yellow kept interrupting!” Deadpool protested.

 ** _Don’t drag us into this,_** White jumped in.

 **This is 100% your shit** ** _,_ ** Yellow agreed.

“So what’s changed?” Spider-Man demanded. “Why are you being so _weird_?”

“Because Peter Parker is driving me crazy!” Deadpool snapped, throwing his hands in the air.

Spider-Man froze. “Peter… Parker?” he said slowly.

Deadpool covered his mouth. “Whoops.”

Spider-Man cocked his head slowly, confusion evident in his body language. “...you mean the photographer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyoooo guys thanks for you kind support and continued readership! Sorry it's another short chapter, between applications and job interviews I just have noooo time at the computer that isn't being spent tweaking my resume... T.T  
> Sooo, in that vein of speaking, it's worth mentioning that I have opened up commissions to make ends meet! If you're interested in any fics that you'd like to see from me, feel free to check my tumblr, vulcan-highblood for info! You can find my fandoms and commission information at the top of the page! Slots are filling up, so if there's something you want, you might want to jump in quick! Even if you could just signal boost the post to get the word out, I'd greatly appreciate it. 
> 
> Thanks for all the support! Next chapter should be out in two weeks!


	17. A Curious Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man and Deadpool have a talk. Revelations are had. Minds may have been changed.

Peter had a hard enough time keeping his double life straight without the added confusion that Deadpool seemed to bring to everything he did. People were always asking him things like “Where were you when such-and-such villain destroyed yet another area of new york?” and it was always a hassle trying to figure out how to answer in a way that made sense, but wasn’t something where you would have had a witness to your alibi. It’s not like he could just say ‘I was with MJ’ or ‘I was out of town.’ Instead, Peter usually went for really awkward answers that didn’t beg more questions, such as “I had some of the _worst_ runs and spent all morning on the toilet” or “I fell asleep doing homework”. Because of this, Peter often thought of his life in two distinct categories - the Spider Man life and the Peter Parker life. He couldn’t exactly go talking about his physics professor to Bruce Banner, and he couldn’t tell his geneticist professor about mutagenic spider bites. The events of his life were compartmentalized carefully, which meant that he had figured out how much about Peter Parker Spider-Man might know, and vice versa how much about Spider-Man Peter Parker would know, and he strictly ensured that neither persona knew _too much_ about the other.

The last time Peter Parker had seen Deadpool, he’d felt badly about scaring the merc off. But knowing that the spandex-clad killer was avoiding Peter to follow Spider-Man around? Well that rather changed Peter’s mind about feeling sorry. And Spider-Man was already pissed about Deadpool shooting a guy in the head. Secretly, he agreed that the monster had deserved it, but that wasn’t the point. It still wasn’t his _place_ to decide which criminals deserved to die, that was the job of the justice system. Some paths you just _didn’t_ take as a hero, and taking the law into your own hands denied that criminal the fair and just trial that _true justice demanded_.

The man _would_ have been convicted, would have been punished. Deadpool was cheating the system, and even if a man like that deserved the horrible things done to him, he still should have been _tried_ and _convicted_ , if not for his particular sake, than to uphold the process of Justice in our society. No criminal should be exectuted in cold blood by a man hired to do it because someone felt wronged by said criminal. Maybe in this case it felt like justice, but how could you be _certain_? Checks and balances existed in the criminal justice system for a reason, you couldn’t just bypass - !

Anyway. Now Peter and Spider-Man were _both_ pissed at Deadpool, and the merc apparently felt it was important to ignore his texts from Peter Parker in order to chase down Spider-Man so they could _talk about_ Peter Parker.

Spider-Man was more than a little confused as to _why_ this might be the case. In Spider-Man’s world, Peter Parker was a mousy little photographer who followed him around snapping photos, who had been unusually scarce the last few weeks. “Did something happen?” Spider-Man asked. “I haven’t seen the little guy for awhile.”

Deadpool suddenly seemed to get even _quieter_. “Something happened to his... actually, never mind that.”

Suddenly, Spidey remembered that Peter Parker had asked to sell pictures of Spider-Man to an unknown buyer for possibly nefarious purposes. Because he needed the cash. And he hadn’t been hanging around as much lately… and Deadpool was being evasive. “He isn’t in any sort of trouble, is he?”

Deadpool shrugged unconvincingly. “Not sure why you’d think I would know about that.”

Spider-Man sighed. “You’re the one who brought him up.” He scrubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. “How’s he doing these days? He seems…nice. I would hate for someone to put a hit on him.” He lowered his hand and stared pointedly at Deadpool. “ _Did_ someone put a hit out on him? Are you asking for my permission to _murder_ him? Because regardless of the fact that he insists on selling pictures of me to the Daily Bugle, I _am_ rather fond of the kid.”

Deadpool was waving his hands in a gesture of denial. “No, no, he’s not in _that_ sort of trouble!”

“So he _is_ in trouble?” Spider-Man demanded. This was news to him. Peter Parker had enough on his plate without being in _Deadpool-related_ trouble. “How are _you_ involved?” he clapped a hand to his forehead then. “Is _that_ why he was asking to sell pictures of me to private parties? Did he borrow money from the wrong people?” he made a move to start pacing, took a few agitated steps, then came to a stop, waving his hands exasperatedly. “I thought he was smarter than that. He certainly _looks_ like a nerd, what good are books that heavy and glasses that thick if you’re not going to fully embrace your nerdy potential?”

Deadpool had one finger raised like he was trying to say something, except that he _wasn’t_ saying anything, just standing there. “Uh,” he finally said awkwardly, “He needs money, but he doesn’t owe it to anyone in particular.”

“Explain,” Spider-Man folded his arms, waiting.

“Someone _may_ have gotten the wrong idea about what he was doing and broken his camera, totally by accident, of course, but--”

“Oh my god,” Spider-Man exclaimed, “Deadpool, you _didn’t_. No _wonder_ he hasn’t been asking for another shoot! You broke his camera? What the hell were you thinking?”

“I thought he was a tail, okay?” Deadpool protested. “It’s not like I _shot_ him!”

“He’s a _kid_ , Deadpool.” Spider-Man said exasperatedly. “He goes to school on weekdays, and visits his elderly aunt most weekends - when he isn’t working himself to the bone trying to get pictures to sell to the newspaper for a pittance.”

“I know that!” Deadpool yelped, “He wouldn’t let me buy him a new camera, though! He said he would figure something out!”

“And his solution was to sell _more_ photos of me to some nefarious buyer,” Spider-Man concluded. He waited a few beats. “Wait.” he stared hard at Deadpool, who appeared to be wilting. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Deadpool squeaked, and that was the closest Spider-Man was probably going to get to a confession.

“Oh my _god!_ ” Spidey threw his hands in the air. “What the actual _fuck_?! You asked him for pictures of me?”

Deadpool stiffened, realizing that he was treading dangerous waters. “Um.”

“Oh my god,” Spider-Man decided, “You are the literal worst.”

“It’s not like I was asking for _nudes_!” Deadpool yelped.

“Oh my _god_ , I certainly _hope not!_ ” Spider-Man shrieked, “What makes you think I would _ever_ pose for nudes in the first place?”

“You have a nice body, why not show it off?” Deadpool shrieked back.

“Yeah well maybe I don’t _want_ people looking at my body!” Spider-Man yelled.

“Then why wear the tight suit?” Deadpool protested defensively.

Spider-Man turned, almost walked away, but he couldn’t seem to stop his mouth from moving. He spun around to face the mercenary, gesturing between himself and the merc. “There’s a difference between the suit and what’s underneath,” he explained in a low voice. “I should think _you_ of all people would understand that.”

Deadpool stiffened, taking a step back. “That… yeah.”

Silence hovered in the air between them until Spider-Man could practically taste the tension. He wasn’t sure how to fix it. Wasn’t even sure if he could. Or wanted to. He sighed, scrubbing at his face, turning to walk away. “Look, Deadpool, that wasn’t fair. Just… ignore me, I’m too pissed to be good company at the moment.”

Deadpool made a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine,” he said, even though it really wasn’t, and they both knew it.

Spider-Man lifted a hand as his farewell, sent out a web and began to swing away.

“Hey Spidey!” Deadpool shouted after him, hands cupped around his mouth, “Just let Petey sell the pictures, alright? I’ll bring them all right back to you!”

Spider-Man alighted on the edge of the wall, turning to look at Deadpool. “What?”

“Let him sell the pictures!” Deadpool pleaded, hands clasped. “Pretty please? I’ll bring them right back to you for disposal, pinky promise!” he lifted one pinky from his prayer-like pose and wiggled it pointedly.

That didn’t make sense. “Why?” Spider-Man demanded.

“Just… let me do this?” Deadpool begged, trotting over to the fire escape and pulling himself up with a grunt.

Spidey crawled back down the wall a bit, hopping onto the fire escape as well. “You didn’t answer my quest-”

“I don’t know,” Deadpool interrupted quickly, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I promise. I just… I care about him, you know? I feel bad for breaking the camera, he won’t let me get him a new one -”

Spider-Man threw up a hand. “You really think if you bought him a new camera he would refuse?”

“He is… stubborn,” Deadpool explained.

“He’s not the only one,” Spider-Man muttered in an undertone.

The merc chuckled awkwardly. “I deserve that, and worse. Just…” he shrugged. “If you don’t trust me, you could always tell him he has to get approval from you on the photos before he sells them. Then you’ll know for sure if I kept any of them.”

Spider-Man cocked his head a little. “You really want to help this guy,” he commented quietly. “Why?”

“He puts up with me, for one thing,” Deadpool said. “And he is smokin’ hot.”

Spider-Man choked. “I’m sorry? Are we talking about the same Peter Parker?”

The katana-wielding mercenary made a dismissive gesture. “Whatever, point is, he’s cute and he’s sweet, and I don’t wanna see him hurting if I don’t have to.”

Spider-Man sighed. “I still think if you just bought him  a camera he would probably eventually use it, pride or no. Then you could be done with it.”

“Well,” Deadpool said slowly, wringing his hands. “Maybe… maybe I don’t want to be done with him.”

Spider-Man stiffened. “Oh?”

Deadpool laughed then. It was forced, and neither of them were fooled by it. “Anyway. Maybe you could let Peter know you changed your mind?”

Spider-Man shrugged. “I’ll… consider it. Good-bye, Deadpool.”

“That’s a dismissal if I ever heard one,” Deadpool muttered, throwing up a quick salute. “Catch you later, Webs.”

With a flick of his wrist, Spider-Man was gone, his mind whirling. When Peter finally checked his phone a few hours later, there was a single message from Deadpool waiting for him.

_‘u should ask spidey about those pics again. maybe he changed his mind’_

Peter stared at his phone for a long moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. A small smile crept over his face. “You know what, Deadpool? Maybe he has,” he murmured, beginning to type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow guys, thank you so much for your support! I am happy to announce that I have found a job! So that's cool! The downside is that my days off are Monday and Tuesday, so it's hard to find time to post on the weekend. All that to say, updates on Monday/Tuesday might become a more likely reality than updates on Saturday/Sunday. But HEY I HAVE A JOB SO THAT'S NEAT. It does involve an hour-long commute one way, but I love the job and my coworkers, so I am pretty psyched.
> 
> I've also gotten one commission, which is pretty exciting, and I'm happy to announce that it's another Spideypool fic, which I hope to finish sometime in the next month, so that's something else to be looking forward to.
> 
> In the meantime, aren't we glad I remembered how to write decent length chapters? haha. 
> 
> Thanks as always for your support! Y'all are the best.


	18. An Unexpected Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade should really learn to keep his promises. Especially when it comes to personal boundaries.

Wade was overjoyed by how quickly Peter got back to him about the possibility of getting the pictures. Spidey sure worked fast, it hadn't even been twenty-four hours before the cute photographer got back to him, letting him know that he was free to  sell him photos after all.

 _‘what did you say to make him change his mind?’_ Peter asked.

‘ _threatened to commission a hentai artist if he didnt,_ ’ Wade texted back.

‘ _gross_ ,’ was the Photographer’s reply.

‘ _you. me. spidey pics. dinner. tonight?’_ Wade sent back.

‘ _only if you promise to never use that many sentence fragments in a single text ever again,’_ answered the young photographer.

‘ _it's a date,’_ Wade agreed.

 **_Is it really a date, though?_ ** White countered.

‘ _awesome. where should i meet you?_ ’ Peter asked.

 _‘ill swing by your apartment to pick you up,’_ Wade answered, already on his way out the door. Peter hadn't resisted calling their dinner a date! He’d even said it was _awesome_! Wade was ecstatic. He’d been worried that Peter might be upset, but at least over text Peter seemed just fine.

Just then, another text arrived from the photographer. ‘ _use the front door this time, please?_ ’

“Aw, but that's no fun!” Wade complained, leaping his way across the rooftops, coming to a stop as he realized he’d somehow found his way to the Photographer’s apartment. ‘ _front door. got it_ ’ Wade texted back, carefully lowering himself down the fire escape across the street. It had been a dreary overcast day, so despite the fact that the night was still young (it was only 5:30), darkness was already shadowing the alley that ran alongside Petey’s apartment building.

 **_Didn't you promise not to spy on him anymore?_ ** White reminded him.

Wade scowled. “I’m not spying… exactly…” he protested, “just making sure he's ready before I show up at the front...door…?” he trailed off, watching through Peter’s window as the young photographer entered his apartment through the front door, flipping on the lights before dropping his backpack on his loveseat and smiling fondly at his cell phone as he tapped at it.

Wade’s phone buzzed a moment later. ‘ _So_ ,’ the message read, ‘ _late dinner or early dinner?_ ’

Wade typed back, ‘ _Whenever you're ready, baby boy.’_

Peter frowned a little bit at that message. “Baby boy?” he repeated aloud, a wrinkle creasing the bridge of his nose. He lifted an arm and sniffed his armpit, making a face. ‘ _Give me half an hour to get ready,_ ’ he texted, peeling off his shirt a moment later.

“Holy fuck,” Wade whispered, mostly to himself, as he took in the sight of Peter’s chest. The photographer was pale, his torso mostly smooth with a small scattering of brown hair in the center of his chest, and a light happy trail beginning at his belly button that dipped beneath the waistband of his jeans. His muscles, though not particularly bulky, rippled as he moved, showcasing his slender build. He reached down to his jeans, shucking them quickly. Like his torso, his legs were not particularly hairy, although he was by no means hairless. His calves and thighs had ropy muscles that glided as he walked. He looked like a dancer or a gymnast, power under the guise of grace.

 **Fuck this is good!** Yellow exclaimed, killing whatever mood may have existed.

“Shut up,” Wade hissed, trying to focus on Peter, who had just hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs. The photographer turned, his ass to the window as he slid them over his hips. He shook his ass from side-to-side as he worked them down, over his thighs, past his knees. Wade felt his pulse jump at the sight. The boxer-briefs pooled around Peter’s ankles as he stepped out of them gracefully. Peter left his clothes lying on the floor ( ** _Typical bachelor,_ ** White scoffed.) and walked across the room to his bathroom, giving Wade an eyeful of his silhouette. Every proportion seemed _perfect_ , even the way Peter moved seemed radiant and sensual, and-

 **_You just watched him undress,_ ** White interrupted. **_Remind me again how this doesn't make you a gross stalker?_ **

Wade sputtered briefly. “Since when have _you_ been my conscience?” he protested.

 **_Since you stopped holding yourself accountable for this horseshit,_ ** White informed him, **_It’s my job to remind you exactly why you're complete and utter trash._ **

“I’m not…” Wade scowled, realizing that there really was no way to defend his actions. He sighed. “Fine, fuck, I never thought I’d see _you_ worry about me.”

 **_I’m not worried, I just want you to be a tad more...self-aware._ ** White countered.

“I am aware that I’m being a creep,” Deadpool grumbled, making his way down the fire escape. “Happy?”

 **_For now,_ ** White answered smugly.

Wade jumped off the fire escape, rolled to his feet, and meandered down the alleyway. He trudged up several flights of stairs to reach Peter’s apartment door and knocked, but there was no answer. Sighing, Wade sat down outside the door. “This sucks,” he grumbled, “Why can't I just use the window?”

 **_You said you wouldn't,_ ** White reminded him.

 **You could just use the front door _right now_ ,** Yellow suggested. **He didn't actually say anything about waiting for him to open it, did he?**

“That's brilliant!” Wade exclaimed, turning and jigggling the handle, eyeing the deadbolt before weighing the pros and cons of kicking in the door. In the end, he opted for a lock-picking kit and eased the door open with a slight _creak._ He poked his head in the door, but the room appeared to be empty. Wade crept into the room, shutting the door behind himself and deadbolting it, dropping his katanas in the basket by the door before glancing around again.

The room looked as he remembered it, sparsely furnished yet with a sort of lived-in charm. The one door that lead to the bathroom was shut, and Wade heard the shower running. Peter’s clothes still lay on the floor by the bed. Wade avoided that area of the room and settled down on the photograher’s loveseat, which was much more comfortable than the floor outside Peter’s apartment.

As he waited, he glanced around the room, noting the stacks of textbooks piled haphazardly around the coffee table and bed, and the papers covering nearly every flat surface. Peter’s closet door was closed, but several bits of cloth poked out from inside, and Wade imagined the interior of the closet mimicked the rest of the room. It wasn't _dirty,_ per say, but it felt cramped and a little cluttered, like Peter had more things in his life than he had space to keep them organized. He didn't even have a desk, Wade realized, noting the laptop teetering on a lopsided pile of textbooks atop Peter’s coffee table. The kitchen table was similarly piled, and the counters also bore random piles of what looked like laboratory equipment - goggles, tubes, and the like. There were notebooks and hastily scribbled sticky-notes everywhere, but the dishes were all clean and aside from what Peter had just shucked, his clothing seemed relegated to the closet. It was his school life that appeared to be encroaching on every available space, and Wade wondered if that _meant_ something. Was school more busy for him now? Did the work accumulate as the semester dragged on? He'd never really been one for school, so he honestly couldn't imagine why the books and assignments appeared to be infesting the entire apartment.

The water shut off in the bathroom, and Wade heard the floor creak as Peter moved around briefly before opening the bathroom door. Peter entered the room with a towel wrapped around his waist and precious else to protect his dignity. Wade waited for the yell, but it didn't come, as Peter appeared totally focused on what was directly in front of him. Walking across the room, Peter yanked open his closet, humming to himself as he considered the contents. The door stood between him and Wade as he tossed one shirt over his shoulder onto his bed, then a pair of jeans, then another shirt. Peter paused and grumbled under his breath, then threw another shirt onto his bed before turning, his back to Wade, and eyed the options he’d selected critically.

Wade couldn't breathe -- Peter _still_ hadn't seen him. He wasn't sure what to do at this point, part of him was sure Peter would have already seen him and sent him packing. Now it was getting into awkward territory.

 **_Oh my god!_ ** White exclaimed, **_You want him to kick you out because you're too afraid to admit you don't deserve this so you're trying to make him push you away instead!_ **

**Well at least get another look at the tush before you ruin tonight,** Yellow grumbled, **I was looking forward to maybe getting some action.**

 **_There is no universe where the face under this mask is getting anywhere near that perfect specimen of a man,_ ** White pointed out. **_Our whole body is basically the textbook example of disgusting._ **

Peter selected his shirt and lifted it up to his chest with a nod. He set the shirt down and his hands went to the towel resting on his hips. Wade heard himself clearing his throat before he even realized he had something to say. “I guess I'll be averting my eyes then,” he quipped, and Peter _screamed,_ grabbing the shirt off his bed and clutching it to his chest as he whirled around, eyes wide.

“THE HELL?!” Peter roared, throwing his shirt at Wade. The photographer scored a perfect hit, plastering the shirt over Wade’s face. Another article of clothing hit him a second later - jeans? Then something wet - his towel? Seconds later, Wade felt light, ineffectual strikes all over his head and shoulders. Peter was smacking him with his tiny fists and goddammit it was _fucking adorable._

“Ow, ow!” Wade yelped, not because it actually hurt but to make Peter feel satisfied, “I came in through the front door this time! I even left Bea and Arthur in your basket!”

The volley of strikes paused briefly, and  Peter panted from somewhere to his left. Wade took this opportunity to pull the shirt off his face and almost wished he hadn't. The photographer was glaring at him with fury snapping like a fire in his gaze. His face was bright red, fists clenched.

Wade swallowed hard. Peter hadn't even been this angry when Wade had teased him about being a whiny millennial. He looked genuinely furious, and for a minute Wade felt the urge to fucking _run_. He quickly quashed that instinct, in for a penny in for a pound and all that. He opened his mouth to say something flippant, but instead what came out was, “Oh shit, you're actually pissed.”

Peter _actually shoved_ Wade with both hands, like some idiot trying to start a bar brawl. “I _trusted you!_ ” he shouted, taking a step back, half-turning away before continuing, “You _promised_ to give me privacy!” He spun back around, sticking a finger in Wade’s face. “What if I just pulled off your mask, right now?” Peter took a step closer, bending down to put himself nose-to-nose with Deadpool, a hysterical look in his eyes. “ _What if I did that to you?_ ”

Wade fought the urge to growl. “I’d fucking kill you.”

Peter wasn't even phased. “You could fucking _try_ ,” he snarled.

Wade waited for Peter to calm down, to get out of his face, but the photographer seemed genuinely disturbed to the point where he appeared to have lost all sense of self-preservation. And that's when Wade finally realized that he _was_ a shitty person.

He hadn't deserved Peter’s trust in the first place, and yet the photographer had chosen to trust him. He’d threatened the kid, tried to buy his affection, and he _knew_ it didn't work like that, but he’d somehow tricked himself into believing that he was somehow _owed_ Peter’s cooperation. He’d probably been nothing but a source of endless stress for the kid, and he'd somehow convinced himself that Peter needed him.

Peter didn't need him at all. In fact, Wade was probably the opposite of needed. Unwanted? Superfluous?

 **_Unneeded,_ ** White supplied helpfully.

Wade stared at Peter, who was panting, still in his face, still furious, and realized he had seriously fucked up. Not only that, but he was about to fuck up even further. Wade reached up slowly.

 **No,** Yellow begged, **anything but that.**

Wade dragged his hand along the smooth surface, digging the pads of his fingers in lightly to get a better grip.

 **_Don't you fucking dare,_ ** White hissed.

In a sharp motion, Wade clenched his fingers and yanked up, away from his face. He grimaced a little at the pulling sensation, his skin apparently as against this as the boxes. With a sigh, Wade set his mask aside, his eyes following the comforting scrap of fabric. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from it. Peter took a half-step back. He wasn't puffing like a bull anymore. He wasn't saying _anything._

“There,” Wade croaked, “Now we’re even.”

Peter didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, “We are _not_ even,” he snapped. “ _You_ don't get to decide when I have the right to be upset.”

Wade looked up, suddenly furious. “I took off my fucking _mask_ ,” he snarled, “What else do you fucking _want_ from me?!”

Peter threw his hands in the air. “I didn't _coerce_ you into taking off your mask, Deadpool, and I certainly didn't _break into your house to watch you take it off_. You did this _yourself,_ so don't you dare act like _I_ did this.” He pointed a finger at Wade’s mask, lying beside him on the couch. “That’s on _you._ ”

Wade just wanted _out_. Fuck! “I’m outta here,” he snarled, standing, but Peter planted his hands against Wade’s chest and pushed him back down on the loveseat.

“We are talking about boundaries,” Peter told him, “and we’re doing it _now._ ”

Wade narrowed his eyes at Peter. “What boundaries?”

Peter poked a finger in Wade’s chest. “Consider yourself a _vampire_ ,” he snapped. “You _do not_ enter my house until you are _invited in_.” He scowled. “A text message is _not_ an invitation, I need to be on one side of the door, _opening it_ for you.”

Wade opened his mouth to protest.

“I didn't even give a key to my ex when we were dating,” Peter snapped. “I am not comfortable with that level of commitment, with _anyone_ , right now. When I want you to be able to come and go freely in this apartment, I’ll give you a _key_.” He poked Wade’s chest. “Until then? You _wait_ for me to _let you in._ ”

There was really only one thing Wade was taking away from this conversation. “Wait, hold up,” he said faintly, “You mean you're actually planning on inviting me back?”

Peter pulled his finger back, cocking his head slightly. “Yeah…” he said slowly, “that's the whole point of ground rules,” he threw his hands in the air exasperatedly. “Otherwise I could just say ‘get out and if you ever come back I’m calling Spider-Man’.”

“But,” Wade said, “but, but,” he struggled to explain why this was unexpected. “but, my face.”

Peter blinked. “...your face?”

“My _face!_ ” Wade pointed. “Why the fuck would you invite _this_ back?”

Peter frowned a little. “Because it’s _your_ face, and - I can't believe I’m saying this - I _do_ enjoy your company.” He scowled, adding in an undertone, “ _when you're **not** invading my _ privacy, _that is._ ”

Wade felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. “No, but, my face,” he said again, aware that he wasn't making sense but not able to say anything that _did_.

Peter blinked, and waited for Wade to find the words.

Finally, Wade found what he’d been trying to say. “You wanted to _kiss_ this face?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said weakly, then, “Well not _now_ , I’m still pissed about the invasion of my privacy!”

Wade felt like he’d fallen through the floor again. “What do you mean, not _now_?”

Peter scowled. “I’m not dismissing the idea out of hand, but I am _not_ in the mood.”

Wade pointed at his face. “Not dismissing?” he questioned, “Or ‘not in the’ -” he indicated his face again, “‘ _mood_ ’?”

“Oh for-” Peter threw his hands up, “I’m not in the mood to kiss _anyone_ right now!”

Wade didn't buy it. “Right,” he said, “I take off my mask and suddenly you're not in the mood. I get it.”

“Dammit, Deadpool, the world does not revolve around your face!” Peter snapped.

Wade leveled a glare in Peter’s direction. “Sure, that's why you backed off the minute I took off the mask,” he grumbled, “couldn't stand to be near-” he was cut off by the sensation of two warm, smooth hands cupping his jaw, and warm, slightly chapped lips pressing against his in a chaste kiss.

It was quick, but not rushed. When he was done, Peter pulled back just enough to whisper “So _that's_ how you get the ‘merc with a mouth’ to stop talking,” his breath ghosting over Wade’s lips with each syllable.

Wade thought he might die. “Oh my god,” he finally managed. Peter’s hands still cupped his jaw, their noses nearly brushing.

“Satisfied?” Peter asked softly. “Now we’re even.”

Wade didn't think that Peter should get to tell _him_ when they were even either, but he sure as hell wasn't going to argue that it hadn't been nice to get kissed. It had been fucking _amazing_. He swallowed hard. “So,” he began awkwardly, Peter still gazing into his eyes, “Are we still on for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HOPEFULLY THAT MAKES UP FOR BEING SO LATE WITH AN UPDATE.  
> YEAH. It's taken so long to get these silly boys to this point, but it looks like we're finally moving from 'friends' and closer to the 'lovers' end of the spectrum in this fic.  
> Because my life has gotten so busy, I probably will only be able to update this fic about once or twice a month, but I do intend to continue this fic until completion, so please don't worry about that!  
> Thanks so much for all your support, and I hope you liked the chapter!


	19. A Sit-Down Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Deadpool talk about kissing and dinner and alter egos. Interesting details come to light.

Peter felt himself smile a little, even as his guts churned with a mixture of fear and frustration. Deadpool was not an easy man to confront, and even harder to get to _stay_ for the confrontation. But at least he’d finally gotten a kiss in on him. It had been nice, not quite like Peter had imagined, but then Peter had the imagination (and libido) of a young man, so… “Dinner would be great,” he told Deadpool with a small smile.

“Cool,” Deadpool said awkwardly, his gaze flicking downward. “Cool, cool, cool; you uh… you might wanna put on some pants first, probably.”

That's when Peter realized he’d thrown his shirt, towel and jeans at Deadpool’s face and hadn't bothered to recover them. He’d been with it enough to yank on a pair of boxers before storming over, but had been too furious to even consider dressing himself mid-confrontation. He’d just lectured Deadpool about personal boundaries while wearing nothing but his _underwear_. The more he thought about it, the more he felt his face heat with embarrassment.

Deadpool cleared his throat, blue eyes darting around like he wasn't sure what was safe to look at. “Uh,” he said eloquently, then lifted up the jeans Peter had thrown at his head mere minutes earlier. “How about these?”

With an inarticulate wail that was equal parts shame and misery, Peter snatched the jeans from the merc’s loose grip and buried his face in them. “Oh my _god,_ ” he moaned, voice muffled by the denim, “This is the _worst_.”

“Here's your, uh, shirt too,” Deadpool added hesitantly, like he wasn't sure if Peter wanted to be reminded of his presence.

Peter fumbled blindly for the shirt, and Deadpool pressed it into his hands. Peter held it up to his face alongside the jeans and groaned again. “ _Worst,_ ” he stressed.

“I dunno,” Deadpool replied, “I think it’s kinda sexy. But it’s not the best look for a restaurant, seeing as most of them have a no-shirt-no-shoes-no-service policy.”

Peter groaned louder. “Please don’t make this more embarrassing than it already is,” he pleaded, dropping the clothes away from his face and tugging on the jeans. “I can’t believe I lectured you about personal boundaries in my _underwear_.”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your drawers before,” Deadpool pointed out, and that made Peter draw up short.

“Wait, really?” he asked, one foot in his pants, the other doing its part to make him look like a flamingo as it hovered over an open pant leg.

Deadpool nodded seriously. It was interesting to see the way his forehead furrowed, and even though the merc didn’t have eyebrows, Peter could almost _see_ the way the brows would have tucked down behind his nose bridge. “You were late for school,” he explained, “and ran around the place tossing clothes on and stuffing books into your backpack.” he smirked, and there was a glint of humor in his eyes. “It was kind of cute.”

Peter honestly didn’t even remember that happening. “When was this?” he asked. “Are you sure it was _me_?”

“We ate pancakes together, and I called you a taxi so you wouldn’t be late.” Deadpool’s eyes narrowed a little. “Trust me, I know it was you. I don’t usually spend much time in the apartments of men who are hotter, smarter, and younger than myself. Or at least I’m not generally _invited_ in.”

Peter made a face. “Don’t bring up invitations, if I shout any more my throat will start hurting.”

“Aww,” Deadpool crooned, “Do you want me to kiss it and make it all better?”

Peter fingered his throat thoughtfully at the suggestion, feeling phantom kisses attacking his neck, and shuddered a little - not in a bad way. He swallowed hard. “Um,” his voice came out huskier than he’d intended, “maybe not _before_ dinner?”

Deadpool’s eyes widened. “The fuck?” he demanded then, half-rising in excitement. “Petey-pie, did I actually hear a _come on_ escape those pretty little lips of yours?”

Peter bit his lip. “Um,” was his eloquent reply.

Deadpool sat back down. “Right,” he chuckled, eyes gazing off into the middle distance, “Never have been good at that.”

Peter frowned a little at the non sequitur, but shrugged it off because he had more pressing matters on his mind. “So about the kissing,” he began, and had to stop because Deadpool whirled on him like he’d drawn a loaded weapon.

“Say no more, you proved your point,” Deadpool told him, “There’s no need-”

“Will you _please_ let me finish?” Peter interrupted him, feeling the irritation begin to bubble up all over again. “God, no wonder people call you the merc with a mouth, it’s like trying to dam a constant flood of sex jokes and self-deprecation.” He threw his hands in the air exasperatedly. “May I finish my point before you jump to the wrong conclusion _again_?”

Deadpool appeared properly cowed, but he had to get one last jab in. “Those who love me call me Wade,” he informed Peter haughtily. “And those who tolerate me, too, I guess. The list is still pretty fucking short.”

Peter sighed. “Wade. Will you listen?” He liked the way ‘Wade’ rolled off the tongue. It fit, somehow. Better than Deadpool, anyway. The way he reacted to Peter using his name was something to behold as well, his features slackening, blue eyes widening, mouth hanging slightly open. Peter doubted he was going to get another chance to speak uninterrupted, so he went for it. “What I was _trying_ to say was if we _did_ want to try kissing some more, maybe we could wait until after dinner because, seeing as you’re always wearing your mask in public, I assumed you would...want to wear… it…” Peter trailed off, thinking of something. “Wait.” He eyed Wade carefully. “Do you _always_ wear the mask, or only as Deadpool?”

Wade looked off to the side. “I guess...I’m not _usually_  Wade when I wear the mask,” he said hesitantly, and to anyone else that probably wouldn’t have made much sense.

But Peter was also Spider-Man, and he understood the power of donning a costume. He wondered if Deadpool and Wade were as different as Peter and Spider-Man.  He opened his mouth to ask something to that effect, but Wade interrupted him.

“Also, I... haven’t been _just_ Wade for awhile,” he explained hesitantly,  tapping at his head. “I got… boxes. And honestly, being Deadpool is a lot more comfortable than being a broken Wade.”

Peter felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He exhaled softly, moving to sit down next to Deadpool. “Oh,” he said weakly. “So Deadpool isn’t an alter ego? More like… the only ego?”

“I don’t draw strict lines between what’s Deadpool and what isn’t,” Wade answered slowly, eyes fixed on his large hands, twisting and twining together as he spoke. “I’ve always been fucking terrible on the inside, and now I’ve got an outside to match, that’s all. So while Deadpool was born out of a need to protect my identity, now it’s just… easier, I guess. To be Deadpool.”

Peter swallowed. “Then why…?”

Wade glanced at Peter, a bit of humor glinting in his gaze. “Why tell you my name?”

Peter nodded.

The scarred older man smirked, a look that made him look downright terrifying, but for the twinkle in his eyes. “Well, if I’m going to have you screaming my name tonight, 'Wade' rolls easier off the tongue than 'Deadpool'.”

Peter shoved at Wade’s shoulder. “I said _nothing_ about sex, you one-track-minded creep! I said _kissing_ . I didn’t even say _making out_ , you are really jumping the gun!”

“Rather be jumping your bones,” Wade replied with a wink and a finger gun.

Peter buried his face in his hands, heart pounding in his ears. “Oh my god,” he muttered. He felt something warm brush against him, and when he lifted his head, Wade was stretched over his lap, fumbling at the side of the couch. Peter lost his voice for a moment, mouth agape. “What? What - what?” he finally managed to articulate a few words, thought admittedly he wasn't making much sense.

“I think you sat on my mask,” Wade explained, digging into the side of the loveseat, crowing victoriously. “Hah! Got it!” he pulled it on and glanced over at Peter. “Much better, am I right?”

Peter shrugged a little. “I like seeing your eyes,” he answered, “but I want you to be comfortable.”

Deadpool swallowed hard. “Right,” he said in a strangled tone. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Now. What were you thinking for dinner?”

Deadpool shrugged expansively, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling as he moved. “I dunno. Steak?”

A steak restaurant? Unbidden, the dream Peter had had about going out with Deadpool sprang into his mind. He tried to push it aside, there was no point in thinking about that now, especially not after he’d just told Deadpool not to push the envelope. (As if the merc were actually capable of such a thing...) He could _not_  chide Deadpool for making advances, then pop a stiffy at the mere mention of a steak dinner. Not only would it be hypocritical, it would just look _weird._ He took a deep breath. “Steak, huh?” he repeated, a flood of shame washing over him as his voice squeaked. “Sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyy all, so I am really trying and struggling to stay on top of these stories as I work and do homework and stuff, so thanks as always for bearing with me. This scene really didn't go the way I expected it to, but I'm nonetheless rather pleased with it. I am kind of embarrassed about how long it took me to write something so short, but the words just weren't there when I needed them so now you all get a tiny chapter. Hopefully next time will be a better chapter... Thanks for reading! I think this relationship is finally starting to see a few sparks, and I am so invested in seeing this story through to the end, no matter how long it takes (and its already been so long... ack!)
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated and I am so grateful for all of you, my readers!


	20. An Uncalled-for Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade can't believe his luck, so he assumes Peter wants something from him.

As he trailed Peter down the stairs of the apartment, Wade found himself unable to shake the feeling that this was all a dream. Peter was gorgeous, sweet, innocent, and actually affected by Wade’s clumsy come-ons. By all accounts it didn't make sense.

**_Especially since you just broke into his apartment to see him naked,_** White chimed in helpfully. 

“It wasn't _specifically_ because I wanted to see him without his clothes,” Wade protested, keeping his voice low as he didn't wish to draw attention from Peter’s neighbors, “I just didn't want to wait outside.” 

Peter glanced over his shoulder to stare up at Wade. “Was that comment directed at me?” 

Wade winced. “Did I say that out loud?” 

Peter nodded slowly as Yellow assured him that he had, indeed, said that out loud. 

“Oh,” Wade said weakly. “Well I wasn't talking to you, I know you're probably still pissed about that whole thing.” 

Peter stopped in the middle of the stairs so suddenly that Wade nearly crashed into him. “Are you going to do it again?” he asked calmly. 

Wade felt chagrined, realizing that he honestly didn't know the answer to that question. “I will try very hard not to,” he said slowly. “Sometimes I forget things, or I start thinking things that aren't, well, real. So…” he shrugged weakly, as if to say ‘what can you do?’ before scowling. “But you already know that I’m certifiable, so… hopefully you'll give me the benefit of the doubt?” He tacked a weak chuckle on the last bit, in case he needed to play it off as a joke. 

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “I _will_ give you the chance to explain yourself if _-if-_ it happens again, but it would make it harder for me to trust you again.” 

Wade barked a laugh. “Trust _me?_ That's a terrible idea to begin with.” 

Peter quirked an eyebrow, leaning up against the stairwell wall. “Oh? How so?” 

“I don't even trust myself,” Wade said. “Why should you?” 

Peter folded his arms slowly, face serious. “Why shouldn't I?” 

“Fuck, I don't know, because it’s _me,_ ” Wade tried to explain. “I… I’m inconsistent. Between reboots, a whole host of writers, a video game, a titular film, and that _horrible_ X-Men cameo... I mean, _fuck._ I barely even know who I am on a _good_ day.” 

Peter nodded slowly. “Do you think spending time with you is putting my life in danger?” 

Wade seriously considered this. “Probably not,” he answered hesitantly. 

“Then let's go,” Peter decided, continuing down the stairs. “If my life was in danger I was going to have you find me a bulletproof vest.” 

Wade felt nearly overwhelmed by an unfamiliar emotion. Not satisfaction or interest or affection or even lust. It was… relief. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders that he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. He followed Peter down the stairs, trying to identity the source of his newfound lightness, and was unable to do so. 

_**What you're feeling is the absolvement of a small measure of guilt,**_ White informed Wade. _**And the relief of knowing he won't reject you completely if you go and pull a similarly stupid stunt to the one you pulled tonight.**_

**I don't buy it,** Yellow decided. **What does he have to gain by trusting us?**

_**Oh I don't believe it for a second either,**_ White told Yellow, _**but he does. And so, I think, does Peter.**_

“That doesn't make sense,” Wade protested. 

Peter paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Less talking, more walking,” he commanded, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We can talk at the restaurant.” 

Deadpool shook his head. “The place I have in mind, there’s no way we could walk there in time. I called a car.” He reached around Peter to push open the door, exiting the stairwell of Peter’s crummy apartment building and hurrying to the curb. 

As if on cue, a sleek black car pulled up in front of him. The rear door popped open. Wade turned to Peter with a smile. “After you,” he offered. 

Peter smiled meekly. “If you insist,” he agreed, a hint of excitement in his tone. He slid into the car, and Wade followed not long after. The car pulled away from the curb, and Peter turned to Wade, studying his features in the semi-darkness. “Did you have any ideas for passing the time until we get to the restaurant?” he asked. 

“I thought we could do some kissing, maybe a little tongue action in there, some light petting, you know, the usual,” Wade quipped. 

Peter eyed Wade slyly. “You'd need to take off your mask for that,” he said with a coy wink. 

Wade gaped, momentarily at a loss for words. “That wasn't supposed to _work_ ,” he managed. 

“I’m on board for more kissing,” Peter clarified. “Maybe some, ahem, _deeper_ kissing. But let's stop there.” He glanced at the window between them and the driver. “Won't he see?” 

Deadpool shrugged. “These drivers have seen far worse, trust me.” 

“I meant,” Peter’s face twisted as he struggled to find the right words, “Because you don't like showing your face.” 

Wade realized Peter was referring to his mask. “Oh, shit, yeah, well, maybe I only take it off halfway. To the nose.” 

Peter seemed disappointed by this response, though he was trying not to show it. “Oh...okay,” he turned to look at Wade, eyes hooded, the corners of his lips turned up in a half-smile. 

A dozen alarm bells went off in Wade’s mind simultaneously. “Wait,” he said suddenly. 

Peter pulled back slowly, a look of confusion flitting across his features. “What is it?” 

Wade could feel his guts churning. “You're not...forcing it, are you?”

Peter looked genuinely baffled by the question. “Not forcing what?” 

“I mean,” Wade struggled to find the right words, “You know I’d still buy you food and stuff even if you didn't put out.” 

Peter’s countenance darkened, and Wade realized with some surprise that he felt almost intimidated by the look the spindly sapling of a man was sending his way. “First of all, I didn't say _anything_ about putting out,” Peter began. “Second of all, I never asked you to buy things for me, so don't go making this weird.” He stared pointedly at Wade. “If you're worried that I’m into you for the wrong reasons - whatever those are, hell if I know - then just...don't? Give me gifts?” his gaze bore into the Merc with a mouth, rendering Wade momentarily silent. “I don't hang out with you for any perks, Deadpool. I hang out with you because I value your company, even though you piss me off and have a warped sense of personal boundaries. Oh, and you casually accuse me of being a leech.” 

“Oh my god,” Wade realized. “I did just do that, didn't I?” 

Peter sighed. “Yeah, you did. If you're still worried about me taking you to the cleaners we don't _have_ to eat out,” he said amiably. 

Wade felt like he was drowning slowly. Why didn't Peter understand? “I don't _care_ if you're using me!” he exploded, still not quite sure how to put what he was feeling into words. “I just want to be sure that _I’m_ not using you. I don't want you to feel pressured, to…” Wade shrugged. “To pretend to want something you really don't want.” 

Peter’s expression softened, and he reached out, running his fingers gently along the lower edge of Wade’s mask, fingers curling slightly as he began to lift the fabric. He leaned forward to whisper, “I’m not pretending to want anything.” His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to Wade’s. And even though Wade wanted to believe that, part of him still couldn't believe that this beautiful, brilliant, cheeky nerd actually wanted a crass, belligerent asshole like himself. And yet, as he leaned into the kiss, running a hand up Peter’s side, loving the way the younger man trembled at his touch, Wade decided that for now, he would take Peter’s word for it. 

And besides, with how hot and heavy things were getting in the backseat, he didn't have too many brain cells left to devote to worrying about those kinds of minor details anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Live!! We still don't have a date, I'm sorry these two are so chatty... but hey at least we know Petey's not a gold-digger...
> 
> Sorry the updates have been such slow going, maybe I'll find time to write over winter break if work isn't too demanding. 
> 
> As always, thanks for sticking with this gigantic slow burn and please don't hesitate to comment or PM me or anything. Thanks for all your support~!


	21. A Conflict of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Wade come to an... understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brace yourselves...

So, Wade was an _excellent_ kisser. Or maybe Peter was biased. He hadn't been kissed in years (except on the cheek by Aunt May, which definitely didn't count), so, probably biased. But Wade was _really good_ at kissing. Peter melted into the kiss, loving the way the merc nibbled at his bottom lip before diving in with wherewithal, kissing Peter with such ferocity that Peter forgot to breathe. He would withdraw for a moment, and Peter would catch his breath before diving back in, running his hands up Wade’s broad, muscular chest, wrapping around the back of his neck and tugging him _closer_ . God, he was really pathetic, getting so excited over a few kisses, but he hadn't had the time to really pursue a relationship in so long, and Wade was _right here_ , and -  

Wade pulled back, and Peter chased his lips with his own, but Wade lifted a gloved hand, placing a finger lightly up against Peter’s lips, holding him back. “We’re here,” he said, “Or didn't you want steak?”

Peter lifted his gaze, eyes locking with Wade’s and glinting with excitement. He opened his mouth to answer, only to realize with horror that something significantly lower than his gaze was _also_ lifting in excitement. Peter had to shuffle a little to try and disguise _that_ particular situation, hemming and hawing as he did so. “Oh, right, yeah, steak...haha, love a good steak, who doesn’t? I mean, red meat is a great source of dietary iron and it’s a lean protein, so it’s pretty healthy…” Peter knew he was rambling, and Wade was looking at him a little strangely, but at least he hadn't spotted Peter’s, ahem, excitement issue. Jeez, he thought pointedly at his body, for all that talk about taking things slow I’m sure sending some mixed signals. Get it together!

Wade didn't seem to mind Peter’s rambling about the nutritional benefits of steak, agreeing heartily with a quick, “Tastes pretty good too!” before slipping from the car and extending a hand to help Peter clamber out of the back seat. As Peter unfolded himself from the back seat and stretched his arms overhead a moment, he caught sight of Wade, staring at him. The merc continued staring at Peter for several seconds, until the photographer began to feel self-conscious, glancing down at himself. “What is it? What's wrong?” he asked, patting at his shirt - oh jeez, it had gotten all rumpled and half-untucked. He began shoving it back under his waistband.

“Oh, shit, my bad,” Wade answered Peter, reaching behind his neck and scratching it awkwardly, “I was just thinking how absolutely ravishing you look with your lips all puffy from kissing and shit,” Wade explained, “with your hair all messy and your shirt kinda rumpled, you look… damn. Just, fucking amazing. Too good. Really hot, hot like-”

“Okay, wow,” Peter interrupted quickly, feeling his cheeks heating. “I’m gladly taking all those compliments, but I think I might explode if I get any more.” he reached back and patted at his hair, awkwardly attempting to smooth it with minimal success. “Um, I mean,” he wanted to tell Wade how much he’d enjoyed the drive, but when he opened his mouth to say _you're a great kisser_ only a high-pitched squeak escaped. He winced, and tried again. “That was reaLLY-” he squeaked again. “You-” squeak, “I-” squeak, “ _Ireallylikedkissingyouandyourereallygoodatittoo_ ,” he spat out frantically, then face-palmed. “Oh my god, I’m the biggest nerd,” he moaned.

“Yeah, well, you're pretty hot for a nerd,” Wade told Peter, elbowing him in the ribs good-naturedly, a smile in his voice. “You ready for dinner now, or what?”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “I’m ready,” he said, then lifted his head, “let’s go,” he turned to Wade.

Wade nodded and began walking towards the restaurant, gallantly offering his arm. He stiffened when Peter took it, like he hadn't expected the physical contact. Peter sighed internally, disappointed in himself, a little. He guessed that Wade was used to making offers and expecting them to be rebuffed, so Peter needed to be more careful about taking Wade’s offers at face value. He’d already crossed Wade’s boundaries several times before, and he hoped he would start getting better at recognizing those boundaries so he wouldn't end up hurting Wade, even if it was by accident.

Part of him wondered at that - when had this gone from a passing attraction to an actual, real desire to be close to Wade, not just physically, but emotionally? When had he started really, seriously thinking about what Wade needed, or wanted, as anything more than a way to pacify a dangerous assassin? When had getting _close_ to him become something more than mere irresponsibility?  When had Deadpool _really_ become “Wade”? Because it hadn’t happened all at once, and yet now, when Peter looked at the man practically bouncing with excitement as they approached the hostess stand  just outside the restaurant, he didn’t see a lawless assassin, a mutate, a danger, a menace… he saw a man. A broken, flawed human who was as lost, scared, and lonely as every other person living on this god-forsaken rock that endlessly circled the sun.

And dammit, he wanted to keep Wade from falling to pieces. More than he could remember wanting _anything_. He knew he couldn’t fix Wade - no one could, probably. But he could be there, and hold him together when everything else came crashing down. And heaven help him, he _wanted_ that. Even knowing what Wade had done, _who_ he _was_ , Peter wanted that. He wanted Wade.

That thought terrified him, stopped him right in his tracks. Wade turned and looked at him strangely, but Peter couldn’t bring his feet to move, not one inch more. This was… huge. This was a commitment he wasn’t ready to make. He couldn’t. He _wanted_ to, god, he wanted it more than anything, but he just… couldn’t take that step, his feet rooted to the ground metaphorically as well as physically.

“Petey?” Wade said, voice soft, quivering just a little at the end.

Peter _wanted_ to walk with him, wanted to enjoy this, but it wasn’t _right_ , he couldn’t _do it_ , it wasn’t…

Responsible.

It wasn’t responsible. And if there was one lesson Peter had learned better than any other lesson, it was that with great power comes great responsibility. And, sometimes, great sacrifice.

“I…” Peter looked at Wade, and something in his eyes must have said enough, because Wade jerked back as if he’d been burned.

“I knew it was too good to be fucking true,” Wade said hollowly. “I _knew_ it!” he hissed, his posture shifting aggressively. “You _lied_ to me. What the fuck?” he threw his hands in the air, “Why wouldn’t you play it through? At least long enough to get some fancy dinner out of the arrangement! I bought your act - hook, line, and sinker!” He looked around furtively, “Is it SHIELD? Did they put you up to this?” He sprang forward then, clutching Peter’s collar in one massive fist and shaking him furiously. “ _Answer me!_ ” he roared, hoisting Peter in the air with one hand, a gun in his other, barrel to Peter’s forehead, his trigger finger twitching like he _wanted_ to pull it but some invisible force was holding him back.

Peter’s Spider-sense was going nuts as he stared cross-eyed at the barrel of the gun, and somehow, he felt strangely justified. He’d known it all along - the merc was unstable, he was a danger to _everyone_ , he was going to snap eventually, and Peter had to have a head level enough to _stop_ him when that happened. He couldn’t do that if he was going to fall head-over-heels for the merc, he was _Spider-Man_ , he couldn’t afford to be distracted - not again, never again. He had to let him go, he had to be _alone_ , he’d known this all along but he’d somehow tricked himself into believing that his only weakness had been the mortality of a loved one, when it had never been their mortality that had been the problem - it was the _distraction_ \- and while knowing the person you cared about was killable had certainly been an unwelcome distraction, it wasn’t the _only_ distraction, and Peter _couldn’t_ allow himself to be distracted. He felt something wet sliding down his face. With a start, he realized they were tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the only words he could force past the iron grip on his throat.

The gun didn’t waver, still pressed against his forehead. Wade’s shoulders heaved with every breath he took. For a moment, the only movement between them was the quivering of Wade’s muscles as he held Peter aloft, the rise and fall of his chest, and the tears trickling down Peter’s cheeks.

Then, Wade dropped him to the ground, turning away. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he said lowly, “but it’s over.”

Peter sucked down air, clutching at his throat. His Spider-sense hadn’t calmed at all. If anything, it was screaming _worse_ than before, a sense of imminent doom pressing in on him from all sides. He rolled over on his side, gasping for breath. He couldn’t move, and not just because he was still _Peter_. He couldn’t move, because he wasn’t strong enough to leave. He still wanted this, wanted _him_ , more than he remembered wanting _anything_. And that was why he needed Wade - Deadpool - to walk away for him. Because Wade didn’t trust easily, didn’t forgive quickly, and once he’d walked away, he wasn’t going to come back. Peter needed Wade to be furious, and strong, because he _wasn’t_. He couldn’t leave Deadpool, so he needed Deadpool to leave him.

“What was all that fucking bullshit about boundaries, then, huh?” Wade screamed, spinning back around. “What was all of this even _for?_ ”

Peter fumbled into his pocket, withdrawing a thumb drive and chucking it at Wade. The merc snatched it out of the air. Peter knew he would see the label he’d scrawled across the masking tape on its underside. _Spider-Man Photos_.

“ _Shit_ ,” Wade breathed, “You’re a fucking piece of work,” he told Peter, throwing the thumb drive back at him.

It hit the ground next to Peter’s face and bounced several times, landing right in front of the hostess stand. She stared at the two of them, eyes wide.

“Fuck,” Wade groaned, sounding like he was in pain. “Fuck you,” he snarled at Peter, “I could have -” he cut himself off, hissing like he’d touched a hot iron. “I’m done. I’m out. Fuck you.” he stomped away, and Peter heard the sound of a door slamming, and then the hum of an engine that faded to distant street noise, sirens, and the other background sounds of New York.

He rolled over, pushing himself up on his hands and knees and breathed. The loss was keen and aching, sharp like a knife between the ribs, twisting deeper with every breath. His vision was blurry, not because he needed glasses, but because he couldn’t seem to stop the tears that swam in his vision. He struggled to his feet, staggering like a drunk man, back to the street, and then down the sidewalk, blindly putting one foot in front of the other. He didn’t have his suit, didn’t have money, didn’t have… anything.

It took him several hours to walk home.

Drying his eyes took even longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW. I'M SORRY. I DIDN'T INTEND IT TO END HERE EITHER, BUT PETER WAS BEING AN ASSHOLE.  
> Anyway, this story has been a roller coaster of ups and downs, and also it's ridiculously long. I realized at some point that its trajectory got sidetracked, and I would need to somehow throw these two together. It was all lining up so nicely, they were communicating, they were _flirting, **kisses** happened!_  
> ....and then Peter was like "nah"  
>  So please, dear readers, don't lynch me. It's a hell of a slow burn, and we've got some setbacks now, but I promise that _eventually_ these two losers will figure things out. In the meantime, uh... I'm sorry? Stay tuned...


	22. A Revealing Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade has a bad week. Spider-Man's lecture is not well-received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w Gore and self-harm, also suicidal urges/behavior.
> 
> Please take care of yourself, don't read if it's going to hurt you.

Wade was _livid._ Where did that fucking kid get off, stringing him along like that? How could he be _into it_ one second and then all cold feet the next? What a load of fucking bull.

 _ **Like you didn't know he was going to eventually come to his senses anyway,**_ White pointed out unsympathetically.

 **You don't need nerds like him anyway,** Yellow agreed. **Not sure why you didn't keep the Spider-Man pictures, though.**

“I don't want anything from that motherfucker,” Wade growled low, winding his way further into the seedier parts of New York, his knuckles itching for a brawl. Fuck, he _wanted_ to see a criminal - or anyone in need of un-aliving, really. He wanted to choke the life out of a person with his bare hands, watch the light leave their eyes, anything to fill the chasm of emptiness roaring in his chest.

Killing was just the easiest way to make everything numb again. You splatter enough blood all over everything and the world sinks down to a point where all you can see is what's right in front of you. All you hear is the beat of your heart pounding in your ears. All you smell is the metallic tang of blood, and you can't tell whose blood it is, just that it's everywhere. As it coats you, you feel less empty, but also infinitely dirtier, like the filth and vermin of the world are crawling inside you now. You can feel the roaches and maggots crawling under your skin like you're just another dead thing, dead inside, dead all over. Dead until you can't take it anymore so you just…. end it. Because everything stops when you're _really_ dead. You do it swiftly. Efficiently. In your apartment, in the alley, in the middle of a busy intersection… It really doesn't matter, so long as it _ends._ It ends, but only for a short time, not long enough. Never long enough.

Wade woke up in a filthy alley with an empty Glock clutched in his right hand. The boxes were already chattering, but faintly enough that he could still ignore them. He was planning on lying there a lot fucking longer when he heard the sound of someone landing gracefully on their feet, followed by the light scuff of someone shifting their weight impatiently, coupled with the slow draw of air that seemed a prelude to a heavy sigh.

He sprang to his feet, a knife in one hand, empty Glock in the other. He'd been hoping to get the jump on whoever it was, but the figure standing before him continued with his sigh like he’d been expecting that exact reaction.

“It's been a goddamn _week,_ Deadpool,” Spider-Man said coldly, arms crossed stiffly over his chest. “Enough with the theatrics.” He narrowed his suit’s eyes. “Peter told me-”

“Told you what?” Wade rasped, “That he's a fucking hypocrite?” He waved his knife for emphasis, but he must have been losing his touch because Spider-Man didn't even seem phased.

“Harsh,” Spider-Man commented drily, “Though not completely uncalled-for.” He shrugged. “All I know is he takes good pictures. I thought you weren't going to get too involved with him?”

Wade frowned. “I never said that.”

Spider-Man snapped his fingers as though remembering something. “Oh right. You said you weren't done with him.” He leaned forward a little. “ _You done yet?_ ” he almost-hissed, and Wade had no way to comprehend what was happening here. Spider-Man was talking like one of his boxes, and that didn't even make _sense!_ Was this a dream?

“Are you fucking with me?” Wade asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“No,” Spider-Man said shortly. “But Peter Parker’s miserable. I just want to know how badly you plan on breaking him.”

What a fucking cocksucker. As if the nerd hadn't already broken Wade, and then some. Wade hadn't even realized he _could_ be broken, and yet here he was, just numbing the pain and shooting himself in the head when the mindless slaughter wasn't enough. “You _would_ be on his side,” Wade grumbled, shaking his empty Glock at Spider-Man in a gesture of mock frustration that felt a little too real.

“Of course I would,” Spider-Man replied in a maddeningly calm voice. “ _He’s_ not the one out in my city slaughtering drug lords and mob bosses and then killing himself repeatedly.”

Wade winced. The web-slinger had a point there. “Yikes,” he said. “It sounds worse when you put it like that.”

Spider-Man sighed. “Is there a _better_ way of putting it?” Disappointment was radiating off him like warmth off a space heater.

“Uh… cleaning up the streets?” Deadpool suggested weakly.

“By becoming New York’s most notorious serial killer?” Spider-Man snapped, sounding less than amused. Shit. Wade had somehow forgotten how much Spidey hated to see him un-alive people.

“Uh…” Wade shrugged ineffectually. “It seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“Yeah, well, now is the time to _stop,_ ” Spider-Man told him. “I’ve been seeing all sorts of agents combing this city trying to grab you -or worse- and we both know that would break bad, and _fast.”_

Wade scowled. “You're not the boss of me.”

Spider-Man made strangling motions as if he were choking the air. “No, but I don't want to start finding dead government agents lying around the city, either,” he snapped.

Wade pursed his lips. “Aw, Spidey, I wouldn't un-alive _agents_ ,” he wheedled.

“You say that, but you’re still pointing a gun at me,” Spider-Man pointed out. “And you _did_ almost gut me with that knife when you woke up.” He sighed heavily, ignoring Wade’s sputtered protests that the gun wasn't loaded and he hadn't _actually_ injured Spidey. “Just… forget about Peter, okay? Get out of town for awhile, lay low…”

Wade felt the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. “Why do you care so much about me forgetting Peter?” he demanded.

Spider-Man sputtered, which was as good as admitting he had ulterior motives. “Look, as long as you're not planning on making anymore moves-”

Wade didn't like being told what to do. “What if I do decide to make another move?” he challenged.

The web-slinger seemed to falter. “Wait, you won't- You're not thinking of trying to get him back, are you?” The urgency with which Spider-Man asked just didn't make _sense_ to Wade. Why did this matter so much to the hero? After all, Spidey barely knew who Peter _was,_ so why…?

A thought occurred to Wade then, a dark thought that ripped through him like a dull knife to the kidneys. “Oh my god,” he said quietly, suddenly lifting his left hand and pointing the knife at Spider-Man, absently noting the fact that the hero didn't flinch at the sudden move, even though he was waving a knife in the fellow vigilante’s face. “You… There’s another reason you want me to leave Peter alone!” Wade exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” Spider-Man protested weakly, obviously nervous.

“You love him too, don't you?” Wade growled, suddenly furious with himself. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? No wonder Spider-Man was so overprotective of the photographer! Another thought struck him.

Was _Spider-Man_ the reason why Peter had changed his mind? Did he know about Spider-Man’s feelings, and feel guilty about choosing Wade? Or more likely, he had realized he could do so much fucking better with Spidey than he could with Wade.

Fuck, that made too much sense, Peter couldn't stand to hurt Spidey, they were probably much closer than the two of them had ever been. Even more importantly, Peter needed Spider-Man to be a steady source of income!

Shit. Had Spider-Man threatened to not let Peter take more photos of him? That didn't seem likely, but this was _Peter._ Who knew how far Spidey would go for his pet nerd. To what depths would he sink to hold onto the photographer? Not that Wade blamed him, Peter was the best thing that has ever happened to him and - and here was Spider-Man, trying to convince him to walk away?

“Fuck you!” Wade rasped, “I’ll give up on Peter when I decide to, and not when anyone else says so.”

“Peter already made that decision,” Spider-Man said in a voice as cold as it was sharp. “Respect that.”

“Respect _this,_ ” Deadpool snarled, dropping the empty Glock to flip Spidey the bird with his right hand, slitting his throat with the knife in his left. He immediately regretted it, because he was still conscious, but there was a bunch of blood clogging his throat so he couldn't even retort when Spider-Man stared down at him, shaking his head.

“You need to accept it, Deadpool. Peter’s gone.”

Wade wanted to scream that Peter wouldn't be gone until he _let_ Peter be gone, but he lost consciousness before he could gargle the words through his mangled throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhh boy this is a pickle. Thank you to all my faithful readers for sticking with me!


	23. A Step Towards Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter really thinks he did the right thing. Just... maybe he should have thought it through a little bit before he told Wade off. Still, that didn't give him the right to go off killing whoever he pleased. That wasn't justice, just... petty. And a dick move, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know anymore.

If Peter had felt conflicted about his decision to sever ties with Wade, he felt a hell of a lot worse about that decision after Wade went on a week-long killing spree. He _did,_ however, feel justified. Wade had gone ballistic and they hadn't even been _serious!_  Obviously, he’d made the right decision by pushing Wade away before he got even closer.

So why didn't it _feel_ like the right decision? Peter couldn't seem to block out the memory of the quiver in Wade’s voice as realization slowly dawned on him, couldn't forget the way his voice rumbled when he told Spider-Man he’d only give up Peter on _his_ terms, and _god_ it had been so _hard_ to look at him at that time, to see what he’d done to the merc. He had to tell himself, over and over again, that this was for the best, that he would always be Spider-Man first, Peter second, that was just how it _had_ to be, but the words rang hollow when confronted by the horrific reality of a man slitting his own throat in front of you.

That sort of experience changes you, and while Peter had seen people kill themselves before _(and god did it ever suck)_ , it had never felt as _personal_ as that moment in the alley, like Wade was looking him in the eye and saying “My pain is your fault”.

Suffice it to say, Peter wasn't sleeping much these days. Not just because of the guilt, but also because he was trying to keep track of Deadpool in case the Merc _really_ snapped. Beyond that, his nights had become an endless cycle of nightmares, too personal to forget, too real to ignore. Uncle Ben, Gwen, Wade… how many people had to suffer before he stopped being so _selfish?_

Peter sighed, staring at his ceiling, shivering under his blankets - not because he was cold. He couldn't bring himself to close his eyes, because every time he did, he’d see the swift flash of a knife, hear the sick gurgle of a man choking on his own blood, watch Wade collapse back against the filthy wall of the shadowy alley, and watch his body slide slowly to the ground, blood seeping down his chest, slick and viscous and red.

Sleep was overrated anyway.

Peter stared at the ceiling a few minutes longer, then sighed. If he wasn't going to be sleeping tonight, then he might as well do something useful. Plus, he’d been serious when he told Wade he was worried. He had no idea what was going on in the Merc’s head right now, and while the hired gun _technically_ hadn't killed any innocents yet, that didn't mean it couldn't happen at any time.

With a heavy sigh, Peter rolled out of bed. He could do a few more patrols, at least. Try and get a few more criminals off the street before Wade found them. He groaned under his breath. He hated this. Hated thinking something so dark about Wade. He pulled on his gloves, tugging them over his web-shooters and staring down at his hands with a sigh. Even before the Merc had met Peter, Spider-Man and Deadpool had at least been on relatively friendly terms, even if the man was a bit much at times. He tugged on the boots, stumbled a little, and righted himself with a grunt, turning to fumble for the mask, which stared up at him accusingly, like even _Spider-Man_ was blaming Peter for turning Wade into something even worse than he’d been before.

With a hiss, Peter snatched up his mask and pulled it on with a sharp tug, looking in the mirror and shaking his head. In a way, Spider-Man had a right to be pissed. After all, Peter’s actions may have cost the masked vigilante even more than a failed relationship between mild-mannered nerd and a homicidal sociopath. Peter may have irrevocably damaged the relationship between Deadpool and Spider-Man, too. Especially since Spider-Man ended up being the one to come and clean up after Peter’s mess. Turning away from the mirror, Peter shook his head as if scolding himself. Get it together, Peter. Wasn't that what he’d wanted, anyway? The whole point of walking away from Wade had been to push him away so that Peter couldn't be tempted to prioritize Deadpool over Spider-Man's responsibility to use his powers for the greater good.

He shut his eyes, swaying a little in the vertigo created by utter darkness. A fitting metaphor for his life, really. Alone in the dark, not really sure which way was up. He reopened his eyes, glancing back over his shoulder at the mask in the mirror. “Do I really need to do this?” he asked himself, already second-guessing his decision to go out on patrol again. He should sleep. Or at least study. He shook his head resolutely. Especially with someone like Deadpool running rampant, New York needed him, whether the authorities were willing to admit it or not. That decided, he turned fully away from the mirror, crossing the room to his window, pushing it open and crawling out onto the fire escape before carefully sliding the window closed. He straightened up, glanced over to the wall beside the fire escape and reached out, preparing to hop over the edge and crawl down the wall until he reached the alley below.

In that moment, everything went _horribly_ wrong. His Spider-Sense ripped though him like an arc of electricity, electrifying his nerve endings and jolting him to full awareness. Before he could formulate an adequate response to the warning, an iron grip clamped onto the back of his neck, propelling him face-down onto the cold metal grate of the fire escape. Behind his ear, he heard the ragged intake of breath, and then _Wade Wilson_ growled in a low rumble, “I fucking _knew_ you were screwing him.”

Oh my god. Oh _my_ **_GOD_**. Peter was going to kill him. Screw that, _Spider-Man_ was going to kill him. Peter struggled to get up, but Wade still had the back of his neck locked in a death grip, grinding Peter’s face into the metal grate.

This was literally _exactly_ the reason why he’d broken things off with Wade. What the hell was the man thinking? Had he been _spying_ on Peter? A chill shot down his spine. For how _long_ ? Did he know? Was he upset because he realized he’d been played? Holy shit, he’d nearly shot Peter for leading him on in a foolish attempt at starting a relationship. How pissed would he be when he realized that Peter and Spider-Man had both been lying to him all along? He’d _definitely_ kill him. Shit. Panic and Spider-Sense were both shaking so deep into Peter’s core that he couldn’t remember how to breathe, and he began to shake. Dammit, he was _Spider-Man!_ He wasn’t supposed to panic. That was _Peter’s_ deal.

“This was all because of you,” Wade snarled into Peter’s ear, voice ragged. “You poisoned him against me.”

Was Wade talking about _Peter?_   Had he not seen? Did he think Peter was still inside? Hope bloomed anew in Peter’s mind. He had to hope that his secret identity hadn't been compromised yet. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Spider-Man grunted. “Let me go.”

“You stole him from me!” Wade hissed, voice growing more calm and deadly with each word. “You had all the time in the world to pursue him but you _didn't,_ not until I decided I wanted him.”

As disturbing as it was that Wade apparently saw Peter as some sort of inanimate object that you could just _fight_ someone for in order to take possession of him, Spider-Man was more concerned by the coldness in Wade’s tone. “Deadpool, what are you doing here?” he asked slowly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He needed to try and deescalate this, somehow.

“You took him away,” Wade giggled, but it wasn't the sane sort of hysteria. “So I’m going to take you away,” he explained, before giggling again. God, it was creepy.

Peter wasn't sure what Deadpool even _meant_ by ‘take you away’, but it sure as hell didn't sound good. “Deadpool,” he said, mostly succeeding in keeping the tremor out of his voice, “Let’s talk about this.”

Deadpool laughed again, the sound sending shivers down Peter’s spine. “I used to look up to you,” he said finally, his grip still holding Spider-Man down. “I thought you were a true hero.” He sighed then, and Peter heard the terrifying sound of a blade being unsheathed. A small part of his mind wondered absently if it was Bea or Arthur. “I was wrong,” Wade said in a heavy tone.

“Wait!” Peter was horrified to hear his voice crack. “Deadpool, wait, you don't want to do this.”

Wade’s grip tightened on his neck, then relaxed fractionally. “When have you ever given _two fucks_ about what I wanted?”

“Please,” Peter said, _Please don’t do this, please, for so many reasons. Mostly because I don’t want to die just outside my own damn apartment. I deserve better than that, seriously!_ “Trust me.”

“How the _fuck_ can I trust you after you _lied_ to me?” Wade snarled, his hand pressing deeper into Peter’s neck, almost cutting off air, “After you _took_ him away from me? After you’ve been _fucking_ him all along and playing me for a fool?!” Wade heaved a deep breath, and launched right into another rant. “And why _the fuck_ aren't you making sure he eats and sleeps properly? Have you _seen_ him? The boy could blow away in the wind and you're here trying to tell me _you're better_ for him than me? At least I fucking _fed_ him, goddamn, what kind of cold-hearted bastard will sleep with his lover but won't tend to his basic human necessities like food and sleep?!”

“I never said I was _better_ ,” Peter snapped, “Maybe Peter just decided that he couldn't make you a priority right now! Maybe he’s running himself ragged and he’s got too much on his plate already, without having to navigate the living minefield that is _Wade_ **_fucking_ ** _Wilson!_ Ever think of that?” Peter took a deep breath. “Asshole.”

Wade’s grip on the back of his neck loosened fractionally. “Oh shit,” he whispered, “You're right.”

The sound of a blade sliding back into its scabbard had Peter’s limbs loosening into jelly with pure relief. He really hadn't expected it to be this simple. “What?”

“It's not me,” Wade explained. “It’s him. I just need to wait until he's less busy.”

Peter closed his eyes, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. “He's not going to be less busy,” he whispered.

Wade’s hand lifted away, but his voice dropped into a deep rumble. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “He won't be busy forev-”

“He will be,” Peter insisted, almost frantically, not daring to sit up just yet. His face was still pressed flat against the metal grate as he continued insistently, “He will. Be busy. Probably always.”

Wade stiffened. “You're fucking shutting me out again,” he snarled, “But I don’t even know why I’m bothering to have this conversation with you, really.” He stood, and Peter dared a glance up, panic flooding his system as he saw Wade turning to Peter’s window and yanking it open.

Peter surged to his feet, grabbing frantically at Wade’s arms, trying to hold him back. “Deadpool, no! Wait, you can’t just-!”

“Peter!” Wade roared, “I’m coming in!” and in he went.

Peter remained out on the fire escape for a split second, cursing his luck, then ducked into the room after Wade. “You need to get out of here, Deadpool. Peter wouldn’t-”

The Merc waved a hand, shushing him. “Where is he?” Wade demanded, looking around the room as if he expected Peter to be crouched on some nonexistent rafter or hiding under the coffee table. “He isn't here. But you were just in here with him.”

Oh my god, there was no way Wade was really that dumb. “Deadpool, it’s not-”

“Peter!” Wade poked his head in the bathroom, completely ignoring Spider-Man for the time being. “Fuck,” he commented, having found no sign of the college student in the shower or sitting on the porcelain throne. “Peter!” he shouted again, probably waking some of the neighbors as he marched over to the closet, tugging it open. No Peter. Obviously.

This wasn't working. Wade refused to understand _why_ Peter couldn't do this, and he wasn’t giving Spider-Man the time of day. Peter had to _show_ Deadpool why this wouldn’t work, because the man didn’t seem willing to take a simple _no_ for an answer, and if he kept hanging around Peter’s apartment he was bound to figure things out soon enough anyway. It was better this way, Peter should have been honest from the get-go. “He’s not here, Wade,” Peter snapped, “Give it up.”

Almost before his Spider-Sense had time to react, two massive hands were wrapped around Peter’s throat. “Then where the fuck is he?” Wade snarled. “He was just _here!_ Where the _fuck_ did he go?”

Peter swallowed, grateful that Wade hadn't actually _squeezed_ , crushing his windpipe. He’d really more rested his hands on Spider-Man’s throat, considering the amount of force it took to really injure him. “I told you before,” Peter said softly, reaching up, taking one of Wade’s hands, and prying it away from his throat. “He’s not here.” He took the other hand, pulling it away too. “He has his reasons, and honestly, he doesn’t owe you an explanation.” He sighed heavily, reaching back to scrub at the back of his neck awkwardly. “But, I guess I do. Probably.” He sighed heavily, and dug his fingers in a little. Before he could second guess himself, he yanked his mask up, and off, turning his gaze up to look Wade in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said, before anything else. “I know this wasn’t what you expected, or wanted, and I lied to both of us for too long to expect anything from you,” he said solemnly. “But, well… now you know why I can’t allow this relationship to continue.” Wade stared back at Peter for a long moment, tilting his head slowly. It took him a painfully long time to answer, leaving Peter to stew in awkward nerves. God he hoped Wade’s answer didn’t involve Bea or Arthur. That would take a long time to recover from, and he really couldn’t afford a hospital trip right now.

Wade cleared his throat awkwardly, gesturing to Peter with one hand. “Is it because the two of you share a body?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You have two personalities, right?” Wade delivered this line with a sincerity that was too raw not to be genuine. And, if Peter were willing to give it some serious thought, it made a lot of sense that Wade, who was intimately familiar with mental instability and dissociative states, might immediately jump to this sort of conclusion. “I mean, on the one hand we have studious Peter Parker, the brilliant scientist personality, and on the other hand we have Spider-Man, a vigilante crime-fighter personality who wears a costume to protect his identity. You know, like Dissociative Identity Disorder, yeah?”

Peter swallowed hard. The merc was being so understanding. _Too_ understanding, even. Where was all the raw fury and aggression from just moments earlier? How could Wade go from _shish kebab the lad_ to _its okay we all go through shit from time to time_ in a matter of seconds? Peter felt like he had emotional whiplash. “It’s not like that,” he explained, speaking slowly and gently, mostly because he _really_ didn’t want Wade trying to strangle him again - or worse. “It’s just me, Wade. It’s always just me.”

Wade was tilting his head the other way now. “But you're Spidey’s photographer.” It was like he couldn’t quite understand how one and one made two. Or in this case, how one and one made another one. Two sides, one coin. Or something like that.

“I’m a selfie genius,” Peter explained mildly, “Like most millennials.”

“But you're a college student,” Wade protested, like he couldn’t understand how you could be a science student and also a superhero.

“Also a vigilante,” Peter agreed. “It’s definitely no picnic. I don’t do many other extracurriculars.”

Wade recoiled as though he’d been burned. “I don't understand,” he said, an edge to his tone like he was starting to get angry again. “So you're not crazy?”

There was a lot to unpack in that question. Peter pressed his lips together in a flat line, weighing his options for a moment before deciding on a course of action. “Let’s have a seat,” he suggested, gesturing to his loveseat with a pointed look, “And I’ll start at the beginning...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting so long just to see things get even weirder... I swear every time I sit down to write this thing nothing goes according to plan, but at least they're talking again? Thanks for sticking with me despite this weird weird road upon which I've found myself, your feedback means the world to me! Hopefully things will start looking up for our boys again.  
> Thanks for reading!


	24. A Disturbing Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool is disgusted to realize he'd been lusting after a high-school kid for the last few years. Peter has other, more pressing matters on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of pedophilia

Wade still wasn't sure what the fuck was going on. Was he hallucinating? Sometimes when the bullet didn't hit his brain just right he didn't die but had weird-ass dreams instead. This sure as hell seemed like a weird fuckin’ dream. Peter - or was it Spider-Man? Fuck, he had no clue who this guy even was anymore - wanted him to sit down, which was probably a good idea because his fingers were itching to get stabby, and in the event that this _didn't_ turn out to be a horrible nightmare fueled by dying neurons, he should probably avoid poking holes in his boytoy.

 **_Ex-boytoy,_ **  White reminded him. **_What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you actually planning on listening to this lying bastard?_ **

Wade wasn't sure how to respond to that. He was still angry at Spidey, and Peter was dead to him -

 **If he was really dead to you you wouldn't have come here,** Yellow pointed out. **Hear him out.**

“Oh shit, hell must have frozen over,” Wade realized. Yellow giving sound advice was basically one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Things must be worse than he’d thought.

Peter was still watching him, nervously wringing his Spider-Man mask in his gloved hands. Hell. That was such a disconcerting image, like a sexual fantasy and a nightmare chimera all rolled into one. Peter and Spidey couldn't possibly be the same person, they didn't even _talk_ the same! What was this bullshit?

 **_You say that, but he pried your hands off his neck like it was nothing,_ ** White pointed out. **_So he's definitely got the powers to prove his identity._ **

Wade shook his head, scrubbing at his eyes, which was actually a lot easier to do in a mask than you might expect. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Ah, what the hell,” he decided, despite White’s protests, and sat down on Peter’s loveseat. He hadn't stowed Bea and Arthur in the umbrella rack this time, and for a moment he felt wildly compelled to do so, before remembering this was either the world’s worst dream or an actual living nightmare. In either case, it was probably better to keep his swords handy. You just never know when you might need to eviscerate a man.

Peter was watching him carefully, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. “I never meant for this to get so complicated,” he began, before closing his eyes and groaning, pounding the heel of his palm against his forehead. “I mean, yes, I _did_ mean for it to get complicated, but not complicated like _this_ , just complicated because I -” he cut himself off, sighing, his shoulders slumping. “I should sit down,” he decided, lowering himself onto the other side of the loveseat,  perched on the edge like he might fly away any second.

Wade waited for him to speak again, but Peter appeared to have lost his words, instead staring blankly at the merc, like he wanted Wade to say something. The fuck would Wade even _say_ ? Peter was a probably-mentally-ill or at least deeply disturbed young man who - damn - was a vigilante, and had been for _years_. How young had Spider-Man been all along? Wade felt a creeping sense of dread in his gut as he realized he’d _probably_ been drooling over an underaged boy in spandex for the last few years.

 ** _It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done,_** White scoffed. **_Besides, it’s not like you_** **usually** ** _go for underage boys._**

Wade scowled at White’s comment. “You do realize this makes me look like a fucking pedophile, right?”

Peter tilted his head a little, watching Wade closely. “Do you want me to answer that?” he asked, “Because it doesn’t sound like you’re talking to me, but…” he shrugged. “I could have a go at it.”

 **_Oh great, now we’ve got another pedophilia apologist on our hands,_ ** White hissed.

“We can all agree that I did not _know_ Spidey was underage for half the time I was admiring his butt, okay?” Wade winced. “I would not have thought about tapping that if I’d _known_ it was a fifteen-year-old’s butt.”

Peter’s hands were covering his face, muffling his mantra of “ _oh my god, no, please, oh my god, stop, please for the love of god, stop it, oh my god._ ”

Wade could feel his skin crawl with discomfort. He turned to look at Peter pleadingly, “I swear, Spidey, I didn’t _know_ , I wouldn’t have - I mean, you know I’m not -” his fingers itched for a weapon. Something he could off himself with, preferably. He wasn’t picky though, at this point he’d tear his own throat open with his bare hands to get away from this whole fucked up discussion.

 **Gross, not in Peter’s bedroom!** Yellow exclaimed, **Can you imagine the mess? Don’t make him clean up your messes all over again.** Once again, Yellow had stunned Wade. He was probably blowing through all of the box’s useful advice in one fell swoop with this conversation.

Peter was looking even more uncomfortable. “I didn’t want anyone knowing my real age,” he said weakly, still perched on the edge of the loveseat like he was ready to run - or stop Wade from doing something stupid - at any moment, “and I kept my face covered for a reason,” he added. “It was a little awkward sometimes, but you had no way of knowing, so…” he winced. “Please don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Wade grumbled, “don’t count on it,” under his breath, but the itchy feeling in his fingers receded a little. He’d save the self-recrimination for a really bad day, he decided. Fuck. He needed to add ‘pedo’ to his “Why Wade Wilson is the Sorriest Excuse for a Human Being” list.

Peter pressed his lips together thinly. “I’m sorry you got caught up in the mess I’ve made for myself,” he began hesitantly, “I really thought I could - I don’t know, balance? The shit in my life?” he sighed heavily, “But I can’t, and, I _promised myself_ ,” he added this last bit with particular vehemence, “That I wouldn’t let personal attachments get in the way of _doing the right thing_.” He hiccuped slightly, and Wade realized with a growing sense of panic that Peter was _moments_ from actual tears. Shit. He didn’t want to see the kid cry.

Peter managed to pull himself together, taking a deep breath. He let it out with a sigh, and so did Wade, sighing in relief. He was not great with crying people, his particular skill set did _not_ include being a comforting shoulder to cry on.

 **_Yeah, you’re more likely to point out how your own life is shittier_** , White commented.

“True, but not helping,” Wade responded.

Peter glanced at him sharply, his expression softening when he realized Wade hadn’t been addressing him directly. How had the kid gotten so good at reading him, _even in the mask_? Shit, it was like Peter saw right past the mask, all the way down to the cold, black lump that had once been Wade’s heart. Shit. Time to shift the focus of the conversation. What had he said?

 **Something about not being distracted by personal attachments?** Yellow suggested. **I was only half-listening.**

Fair, Wade was usually pretty distracted himself. Still, it lined up with what Peter had said the night he’d rejected Wade. “What do you mean, you can’t let your personal feelings get in the way? Is a relationship going to, what, bias you?” Wade didn’t get it, and more importantly, it shifted the focus back onto Peter.

The young man swallowed hard, staring down at the Spider-Man mask in his hands. “My Uncle taught me that with great power comes great responsibility,” Peter began, shutting his eyes for a moment, fingers digging into the mask slightly. “I never really understood what that meant. I’m still trying to figure it out, if I’m being honest,” he looked at Wade, his eyes begging the Merc to understand.

“Great power and great responsibility don’t _preclude_ happiness,” Wade argued. “Hell, I don’t even care if you find it with _me_ , you deserve better than…” he gestured around Peter’s bare-bones, drafty apartment, “…all this, at the very least.”

Peter stiffened a little. “You don’t know _what_ I deserve,” he said in a voice so hauntingly familiar it took Wade a moment to realize that what he recognized in Peter’s voice was the poignant regret and self-loathing of a young man who blamed himself for…  too much, probably. Definitely things that weren’t _actually_ his fault.

“Convince me,” Wade challenged.

Peter’s eyes shut and he took a sharp, pained breath. “When I first got my powers, I saw them as nothing more than a party trick,” he began. “I didn’t use them responsibly, and I… I made a mistake that I can never undo or make right.” He was shaking, fingers clutching tightly at the mask in his hands. He looked up at Wade, the first tear slowly trailing down his cheek. “I _killed_ my uncle through selfish inaction, and nothing I do can ever fix that.” He took a shuddering breath, swiping at his eyes. “I told myself I’d _never_ let something like that happen again,” he said hollowly. “And then… then there was Gwen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, hopefully y'all recognize that I'm not trying to make light of pedophilia although I've discussed it in a vaguely amusing context. I just wanted to make sure that people know that Wade _didn't_ know Spidey was underage and he is not, in fact, interested in high school boys. Because he's, y'know, a much older adult and that would, in fact, be very creepy. (tbh the age difference at this point is _still_ pretty wild, but that's what I get for choosing the canon ages that I chose... so that's on me)  
>  Anyway. Sorry for the obvious origin story talk, I tried to break it up between this chapter and the next, but Peter's got to work through a few things and Wade needs to listen and figure out where he's coming from. Hopefully they'll both be the better for it.  
> As always, thanks for reading!


	25. A Tragic Origin Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the origin story, folks. We all know how it goes.

Wade didn't say anything, merely shifting so he sat more comfortably, waiting for Peter to continue. Peter hadn't really planned on baring his soul tonight, but when the Merc with a mouth gave you his undivided attention… a shudder worked its way down Peter’s spine, and he tried not to think about how that made him feel. “I don't really know how to explain in a way that makes sense,” he began weakly, “I just know that more than anything else, Uncle Ben’s passing has been a defining moment in my life, and has shaped who I am… both as me, and as Spider-Man.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of shitty origin stories,” Wade grumbled in an undertone, but he continued to watch Peter, waiting for him to continue.

Peter broke eye contact, staring down at his hands, clutching his mask as he continued, “I was a barely a teenager when a spider bit me,” he said slowly, “It hurt like hell, and… the next morning I woke up with powers.” He chuckled low in his throat, like he was privy to a joke Wade couldn't understand. “I didn't know what all I could do, at first, but I figured this was my chance…” he crumpled the mask tight in his hands. “I thought I could make good money off my abilities, and I did, for awhile.”

“Doing what?” Wade interrupted. “Not...porn?” he added the last bit in a small voice.

Peter glowered. “I was fifteen!”

“Oh yeah, shit, that's right I forgot, fuck!” Wade cringed, no longer looking at Peter. “I said I forgot, jeez, fuckin' lay off and let me listen!”

Peter waited until it appeared Wade was done listening to whatever else was talking to him. It gave him a moment to center himself, and figure out how to explain. “I… I had the chance to stop someone from stealing from the guy I worked for - but I was pissed off, and bitter, because he wasn’t going to give me the money, so why should I help him? I let the thief go.” Peter’s voice broke, and he had to gulp down a few breaths.

Wade grumbled something under his breath, then said, “So what? Assholes deserve each other.”

Peter laughed shakily, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. “Yeah, well, that asshole went out and jacked a car to get away. Shot the owner of the car in his haste to escape.”

“Well shit,” Wade replied. “That sucks.”

“When I walked out, there was already a crowd gathered around, but I was curious.” Peter felt a wail building in his throat, and he swallowed hard, waiting until the scream sank back down, leaving him feeling numb. “It was my uncle, Wade. The man who raised me. The man I’d ignored, in my selfishness and greed. He _died_ , Wade. Because of _me_.” His voice broke, his vision blurring. He swiped angrily at his eyes, but it didn’t do any good.

“Fuck,” Wade said quietly. “But Peter…You didn’t pull the trigger.”

Peter whirled on him. “That’s _not the point, Wade!”_ He splayed a hand against his chest with a thump. “I had the _power_ to stop him, but I avoided the _responsibility_ to use my power for what’s right, and it cost a _good man_ his _life.”_ He hung his head, shame crushing down on him like a weighted blanket. “I’ll never forgive myself for that,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve it.”

Wade reached for Peter, and aborted the motion, pulling his hand back and placing it in his lap. “Baby boy,” he whispered, “That’s not fair. You’ve done so much -”

“But I never manage to do the right thing when it _counts!”_ Peter snapped. “I thought it would be enough, Wade, if I just used my powers _responsibly_ then I could keep people from getting hurt. But it _doesn’t work like that,_ not with my luck.” His fists clenched and he stood suddenly, pacing across the room with a restless energy. “There was this girl I loved,” he said. “Her name was Gwen.” He paused in the middle of the room, feeling as though rooted to the spot, so tense his muscles were shaking with exertion. His fingers were biting into his palms, his breath puffing in and out of his nostrils. “And someone learned my secret identity. Someone who never should have known.” He was shaking harder now, but it wasn’t from tension anymore. “God, I… it was my fault, Wade, if I’d kept my secret, she never would have been in danger.” He could feel himself crumpling up inside, like a discarded sheet of paper being crushed between two large fists.

“Peter,” Wade crossed the floor swiftly, standing beside him, not touching him, his hands hovering anxiously like he wanted to help but didn’t know what to _do_.

“I killed her,” Peter sobbed out. “I killed her.”

“You didn’t fucking kill _anyone,”_ Wade rumbled dangerously. “It’s not your fault some damn bastard went and murdered -”

“No!” Peter whirled around, gripping Wade by his suit and shaking him a little, “You don’t understand! _I killed her. Me. With these hands.”_

Wade’s head tilted to the side, just a fraction. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, “I don’t believe it.”

Peter dropped him, all the fight leaving his body. He was just so tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of being responsible. Tired of the guilt, the horrible gnawing guilt that he’d failed _again,_ that Wade was just another story of Peter’s terrible track record with people, and here he was, trying to explain to a damn _mercenary_ that it was easier to forgive _him_ than it was to even consider forgiving himself. “Believe it,” Peter said softly, before moving back to the loveseat and lowering himself back down on the right cushion. “You know what _terminal velocity_ means?”

Wade followed Peter back across the room, gingerly seating himself on the other cushion. “Freefall, right?”

Peter laughed mirthlessly. “Do you know what happens when you catch the leg of a person in freefall at the wrong angle?”

He could sense the moment Wade realized what he was hinting at. His shoulders stiffened, his head jerking back like he’d been slapped. “Oh shit,” he said softly, then, “You really _did_ kill her.”

It wasn’t really news to Peter, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. He felt his face crumple, and he buried it in his hands, trying to hold in the emotion that had been threatening to overtake him from the beginning of this godawful conversation. But he hadn’t slept enough in _weeks_ , hadn’t eaten probably all day (now that he thought about it), and Wade had just verified that yes, Peter had killed Gwen Stacy, a girl he could have saved if he’d just _used his damn brain_. Warm arms captured him in a tight embrace, and Peter realized that he was keening, tears streaming down his face. Wade held him close, giving him comfort he didn’t deserve, rocking him back and forth as he _cried_. He’d never told anyone, he shouldn’t have told Wade, and yet his arms felt so strong and comforting, holding him close.

Peter cried until he felt wrung-out like a dishrag, limp and crumpled up, but soggy around the edges. He swiped at his face, covered in tears and snot. “I’m sorry,” he hiccuped, “I’m sorry,” he said again, not sure what he was apologizing for, precisely.

Wade pulled back a little, eyeing Peter calculatingly. “Damn, son,” he said frankly, “That’s one helluva shitty origin story.”

Peter gave him a watery smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. “So, that’s why I keep my identity a secret,” he said, voice shaking. “And why I don’t… you know. Date.”

“Damn,” Wade commented, “I mean, I get it. That’s some fucking traumatic bullshit you got.” He eased back a little, still watching Peter like he expected him to burst into tears again any second. “Plus, what with your whole ‘no-killing’ shtick, it fucking sucks even more. I mean, if I accidentally kill someone it’s like ‘oops, my bad’, but for you…” He sighed, eyeing Peter carefully. “So, you don’t date because you might accidentally kill them? Because if so, I have some great news that may make me your only viable candidate.”

Peter shut his eyes, _not_ ready to go there just yet. “That’s not the point,” he said, “Didn’t you hear? The point is, I can’t be _distracted_. Not by greed, not by love, not by _anything_.”

Wade leaned forward, as if to argue the point, but Peter wasn’t about to let him get there.

“My powers are _dangerous,”_ Peter stared at Wade until the man in red spandex sat back again, apparently content to listen for the moment. “I can’t afford to be pulled in more than one direction. I can’t risk endangering the people I care about, because it could end up hurting _more_ people.”

Wade waited for another moment, and when it became obvious Peter had spoken his peace, he scratched at the back of his neck for a moment. “I mean… I guess I see where you’re coming from, but it’s fucking bullshit, yeah?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You’re not single because it might _distract_ you,” Wade told him. “You’re afraid of your own power. Afraid that if you don’t always control yourself, then you’ll turn into a fucking monster.” He shook his head, tapping his chest demonstratively. “Take it from an _actual_ monster, Peter. It’ll never happen. Not you.”

Peter stared. That wasn’t… he opened his mouth to protest, but Wade held up a hand.

“Now, I gave you a chance to talk, but now I want a chance. That okay?” He waited expectantly, gazing at Peter through the white eyes of his mask.

Suddenly Peter didn’t want to be the only one feeling exposed. “Take it off,” he said. “Then talk.”

Wade stared at him for a long moment. “Take it off?” he repeated.

“Your mask.” Peter indicated the offending article in question. “Take it off, and I’ll listen. But I want to hear whatever you have to say from Wade. Not Deadpool.”

Wade stood suddenly. “The _fuck_ gives you the right to make that kind of demand?” he snarled. “I was trying to _comfort_ you, dammit! Hell, why you fuckin’ gotta be like this? I thought we had an _understanding,_ fuck!”

“I don’t _want_ your comfort!” Peter shouted back, standing also. “I _told_ you why I don’t date. I _bared_ my goddamn _soul_ , Wade. I’ve never told _anyone_ about this, but if you’re too busy freaking out about me seeing your fucking _face_ , then fine! Don’t say anything else. Just _leave!”_

“Fine!” Wade snarled, whirling for the window.

 **_“USE THE GODDAMN DOOR!”_ **   Peter roared, pointing.

Wade did, slamming it.

Peter collapsed on the loveseat, suddenly exhausted. And even though he was convinced he’d cried all the tears he had in him, he found his eyes suddenly blurred again. With a groan, he sank down into the lumpy seat, burying his face in his arms, and sobbed until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this chapter. Was hard. I genuinely thought after last chapter this would be a walk in the park, I mean, come on, it's just the origin story, how hard could it be? But somehow I kept getting stuck? I don't know, I really thought this would be the easiest part to write and I think it turned out to be the hardest.  
> Also, they're back on non-speaking terms??? I thought this would fix things but apparently it didn't so *shrugs* I dunno, man, I really thought these two would be better at communicating by now.  
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading! (also I must admit that Peter screaming at Wade to use the front door felt very cathartic, it's probably my favorite line in this chapter)  
> Hopefully this fic will get back on the rails soon enough, but in the meantime, thank you so much for your patience.


End file.
